


Between The Shadow And The Soul

by peachy_chulanont



Series: What We Do Is Secret [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Banter, Bedsharing, Canon Meta, Dirty Dancing References, Happy Ending, Introspection, Japanese Mafia, M/M, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, Past Drug Use (mentioned), Pet Names, Russian Mafia, Unreliable Narrator, canon compliant to an extent, not a ton of smut but enough, tattoo talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 156,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachy_chulanont/pseuds/peachy_chulanont
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri has been in love with Viktor Nikiforov, living legend of  the figure skating world, for years. The last thing he expects after a disastrous season, though, is Viktor himself showing up at Yuuri's home in Hasetsu - which, unbeknownst to Viktor, is part of a yakuza network closely associated with rigging bets and money laundering. And then Yuuri catches sight of Viktor's multiple, previously hidden tattoos and wonders: could Viktor be a part of a crime syndicate, too?(an AU where everything is the same except Yuuri and Viktor are also mafia members)





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> explanations of terminology used in each chapter will be included in the end notes.  
> this fic does not reflect real life people or events; the characters from 'yuri!!! on ice' are not my own, and I am not using them for my own profit  
> title is from One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of balancing skating and the activities of the yakuza he's a part of, Yuuri thinks he needs to choose one over the other. Yuuri makes the decision to leave figure skating behind after a horrible season and returns to his hometown of Hasetsu. The last thing he expects is for a video of him on the ice to go viral and bring Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri's idol, right to the center of Yu-topia's hot springs, which also works as a place of business for the local ninkyō dantai...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a kinda lengthy chapter, but please stick with it! I'm so excited to share this world with you all ❤️

      For anyone else, making such a spectacular mess of a performance at the Grand Prix wasn’t the end of the world. Many skaters had come back from being at the bottom of the field to have stable, successful careers. But for Yuuri, accepting his failure as a final defeat was almost comforting. For the months leading up to his first Grand Prix, he’d been pushing himself to the limits mentally as well as physically. And then, there was the horrible, awful news from his family in Japan that Yuuri’s beloved dog Vicchan had unexpectedly died. It was like a perfect storm: suddenly, all the stress of the years away from home was catching up to Yuuri, and he was eating comfort foods instead of sticking to his diet, skipping workouts because it was stressful to get out of bed, and the season progressed poorly from there. At the same time, he was trying to get his degree at the university. And there were other obligations, ones that he couldn’t share the burden of with his rink mates or friends. Fucking up so soundly and painfully at the Grand Prix stung like no other pain Yuuri had ever felt – but it gave him an excuse to go home.

      So Yuuri told Celestino that he was taking a break from skating, told Phichit that he was moving out after graduating. Phichit was definitely more upset than Celestino; to be fair, though, Celestino knew more about Yuuri’s life outside of skating than even his roommate of four years did.

      “This isn’t about the Detroit Partnership—“ Celestino began in an undertone when Yuuri told him he’d be moving back to Japan.

      Yuuri had given him a tight-lipped smile. “No, coach, it’s not that. Fukuyama isn’t going to have me jeopardize everything else we’ve accomplished by getting involved in another family’s pissing match. I don’t feel comfortable speaking for the oyabun, but I’m sure he’s very grateful for the aid you’ve lent us these last few years.”

      Celestino returned the tense smile and studied Yuuri for a moment before pulling him into a tight hug. “I wish you weren’t quitting, Yuuri. You have a lot of potential.”

      Yuuri chuckled weakly. “You’re not the only person who feels that way, you know. Apparently I have skills suited to _many_ things.” It was a bad joke, and Celestino rolled his eyes.

      “Well if you change your mind, you know, and you have the opportunity – just let me know, and I’ll take you on again. What happened this season shouldn’t be the last thing the world sees from you.”

      At that, Yuuri stepped away. There was nothing he wanted to say to that; he couldn’t change the past, he couldn’t undo the mistakes that burned in his chest whenever they were mentioned. Celestino didn’t say anything when Yuuri dipped his head in a bow and left without another word.

 

⋆

 

      It was odd, returning to Hasetsu. Before Yuuri had even left for America when he was eighteen, the economy had started to take a nosedive. Many of the other onsens in town, as well as restaurants and some shops, had gone under. Yuuri was expecting a town in rough shape; he got off the train to find that the local train station had been upgraded and now featured elevated tracks. There seemed to be more people milling around the station, visitors and locals alike. It was a surprise – but not as much of a surprise as coming face to face with a wall plastered with posters of himself. No one had really known who Yuuri was before, not outside of his family, Minako, the Nishigoris, and those associated with Yamamoto’s ninkyō dantai. Now, he had people approaching him, wanting to shake his hand and congratulate him even though Yuuri had let the whole of Japan down with his failure in the Grand Prix Final.

      Yuuri’s old ballet instructor met him at the train station with a hand painted banner welcoming him home. Okukawa Minako had gone to school with Yuuri’s mother, Hiroko, before becoming an internationally recognized ballet dancer. She’d come back to Hasetsu in the end, though, and she’d always been a part of Yuuri’s life. She carried herself with all the grace of a prima ballerina, but the façade of cool collection all but fell away when she saw Yuuri and wrapped him in a tight hug.

      She wouldn’t let Yuuri skulk through the station, avoiding potential fans; she made sure he shook the hand of every person who approached them, made him thank them for their support with a smile. It wasn’t that Yuuri wasn’t _grateful_ ; on the contrary, he was overwhelmed by the support of his hometown when he felt so painfully undeserving.

      Minako made small talk as they walked to Yu-topia. Yuuri was surprised when she said she didn’t have many students at her ballet studio these days – wasn’t the town doing better than when he left? She smiled indulgently. “Hasetsu’s population has been shrinking, actually. And it’s not families bringing their children to Okukawa Dance Studio that’s bolstering Hasetsu’s economy, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri spluttered a little, knowing what his old teacher was implying but unsure how to feel about it or how to respond.

      Minako only let him flounder for a minute before elbowing him in the ribs and joking, “Obviously it’s the Kachu Snack Bar you’re thinking of.” They both chuckled, but quickly fell into silence that seemed to stretch on for far too long.

      “You know, there are hardly any young skaters anymore,” Minako said after the silence became too heavy. “It’s really going to cheer people up to see you’ve come home. Everyone in town is so _excited_ , Yuuri.”

      Yuuri stopped in his tracks. The mere idea of going around and visiting all the townspeople, of sitting in the onsen and greeting guests and answering their questions about his time in America, was overwhelming. “I’m sorry, Minako-sensei, I can’t. I’m – I’m tired.”

      Minako raised her eyebrows. “Everyone’s been dying to see you… but alright.”

 

      When they arrived at Yu-topia, Minako steered Yuuri in through the front entrance, calling, “Hiroko! I’ve brought Yuuri home!”

      Yuuri heard a small clatter as his mother put down whatever she’d been holding and came at a run across the onsen. “Minako-senpai! Thank you for going to get him!” she called, coming to a stop a few feet from Yuuri and beaming up at him. “Yuuri, welcome home!” she practically crowed.

      “Thanks,” Yuuri said, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry it’s been five years…”

      “No worries!” Hiroko said, waving her hands in a placating way. She was smiling widely, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m sorry, too, that I didn’t make it to your graduation. Oh,” her eyes widened, “do you want katsudon?”

      Minako interrupted, “Hiroko, have you lost weight?”

      Hiroko laughed and wiggled her butt girlishly. “Nope! Oh, Minako-senpai, you always look the same even though you drink all the time.”

      Minako narrowed her eyes and looked over at Yuuri, who had been pointedly looking away from the women since they broached the subject of weight. “Yuuri, I’ve been wondering since I met you at the station… what’s with that _gut_?”

      “Uh,” Yuuri began, starting to turn away. _Maybe if I’m fast enough, she’ll give up_ , he thought. Before he could do much more than slouch, though, Minako grabbed him by the strap of his backpack.

      “Take those clothes off!” she demanded, pulling at his winter jacket.

      “No, no!” Yuuri protested as Minako got his outer layer of clothing off, “ _Minako-sensei_!”

      It was too late – Minako had gotten enough of Yuuri’s clothes off to show the weight he’d gained, carried around his gut and hips. “No!” she wailed, dramatically putting her hands on either side of her face.

      Toshiya had poked his head through the office window at the commotion, and now he pointed at Yuuri and chuckled. “Wow, Yuuri, you look just like your mom!” he said.

      “Dad…” Yuuri began, but Minako interrupted him again.

      “Toshiya-san!” she snapped, looking incensed, “this is no laughing matter! That is not the weight a figure skater should have!” she pointed accusingly at Yuuri, who hunched over and pulled his sweater down to better hide his stomach.

      Toshiya shrugged. “He always did gain weight easily. But what can you do? Eat lots of katsudon tonight!”

      “Oh, uh, before that…” Yuuri began, looking between his parents.

      Hiroko smiled. “Of course, Yuuri. Go say hi to Vicchan.”

 

      The shrine for Vicchan was set up in one of the unused rooms of the onsen. Yuuri sat there for a while, looking at the picture of himself from nearly a decade ago, holding the toy poodle. He’d thought there would’ve been many more years to spend with his dog. Instead, he hadn’t even been there when he died. Yuuri touched the tags that had been on Vicchan’s collar, now displayed next to the picture of them together.

      “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you one last time, Vicchan,” he said softly.

      Yuuri didn’t – couldn’t really bear to – stay for much longer. With a sigh, he stood and walked down the short hallway to his old bedroom.

      Yuuri’s room was much like he’d left it five years ago. His mother had dusted every now and then, but she hadn’t touched any of the books or trinkets Yuuri had left behind when he moved to America. The walls were still covered in posters of Viktor Nikiforov, the five-time world champion skater from Russia that Yuuri had been in love with since he was a preteen. Yuuri sat down heavily on his bed. With two dimensional renderings of Viktor facing him from every angle of the bedroom, it was hard not to relive that day in Sochi when Viktor hadn’t even recognized Yuuri as a fellow competitor. _A commemorative photo? Sure!_ The words sounded mocking in Yuuri’s memory, though he couldn’t say for certain if Viktor had really meant for it to be that way. For over a decade he’d looked up to Viktor, and when they finally were able to skate on the same ice, Yuuri had choked and Viktor thought he was _just a fan_.

      Yuuri’s life was a joke – a really, really shitty joke. He lay back on his bed and squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see Viktor’s stupid, perfect, smiling face staring down at him from the ceiling. Maybe it would be best to pull all of them down, forget the whole thing with Viktor. Yuuri was just starting to talk himself into it when there was a knock at his door and Mari stuck her head in.

      “Hey,” she said, as casual as if it had only been five minutes since she last saw her baby brother and not five years.

      “Mari-neechan,” Yuuri said, raising his head up a little so he could see his sister leaning against the doorway of his room. “It’s been a while. I’m sorry I’ve come to visit when it’s busy.”

      Mari shrugged. “Hey, how long are you staying in Hasetsu? Are you going to help out the ninkyō dantai?”

      Yuuri frowned. “What do you mean, where’s this coming from?”

      “You went ahead and graduated from university, got your degree even though you had to study an extra year. So what are you going to do now? If you’re going to keep skating, we’ll all support you. But you know, I’m sure you could move up fairly easily with Fukuyama now that you’re _educated_.” There was a teasing edge to her voice, but Yuuri knew Mari was serious.

      “I – I think I just need some time to think all this over.” _It’s not like a business and political science degree would make much difference with the oyabun_ , he thought.

      Mari made a humming sound. “Okay,” she said, turning to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said over her shoulder, “Nobunaga-san has an opening for the rest of the day if you’re interested. Dad told him you were coming home and he apparently cleared his schedule.”

      Yuuri bolted upright. Nobunaga was an irezumi artist, the one who had tattooed Yuuri’s chest and shoulder. Yuuri had told him that he would come home from America at the end of every season, and then stayed away for five years.

      “Did he… uh, did he sound mad?” Yuuri asked, afraid to meet Mari’s eyes. She shrugged and reached into her apron pocket for a cigarette.

      “I don’t think so. Really, I doubt he would be – haven’t you heard that it took Masihide-san twenty-five years to get anything more than sujibori? Nobunaga-san isn’t going to be upset because it’s taken you five years to get your ass back here.”

      Yuuri sighed. Mari was right, of course. There was no sense in putting Nobunaga off, either. Yuuri stood and walked to his closet to find the baggy black sweatshirt he liked to wear after being tattooed. It hung where he’d left it after getting the last lines of his koi inked in. Though it wasn’t as baggy as he liked now that he had gained weight again, it was still soft and loose over his chest. Mari still stood in the doorway, watching Yuuri.

      “I’ll let Mom and Dad know where you are,” she said softly as she watched him dig his wallet out of the backpack he’d carried all day.

      “Thanks, Mari,” Yuuri said, finally meeting his sister’s eyes.

      She looked concerned, but smiled all the same around the unlit cigarette between her lips. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m the best big sister ever.”

      She lit the cigarette before leaving the room, a trail of smoke in her wake. It made Yuuri’s chest ache with something like homesickness, even sitting there in his own bedroom.

 

      Nobunaga was a small, older man who lived in an apartment near the foot of Hasetsu Castle. Yuuri had technically known him before becoming involved with the ninkyō dantai, just as he knew many locals, but he hadn’t learned of Nobunaga’s particular art form until he was seventeen. Kyushu had its fair share of yakuza groups, and each tended to have their own irezumi artist. Nobunaga, though, was apparently well known outside of Hasetsu. It was considered an honor to be tattooed by him, not just because of Nobunaga’s many years of experience, but also for the uncanny way he was able to capture the stories and accomplishments of men in designs inked into their skin.

      Yuuri had only sujibori – outlines – inked into his chest in a deep hikae style. It had been especially fitting at the time to have something inherently indicative of the beginning of a journey, with the sujibori completed not long before Yuuri left for America. Now, Yuuri’s story felt like it had come to an end, and he didn’t even feel deserving of the proud koi that swam across his left pectoral. The koi symbolized a strong intent to succeed, and Yuuri was a failure.

      It was only a short walk to Nobunaga’s home from Yu-topia. The old man smiled kindly when he opened the door. Yuuri bowed politely in greeting and murmured an apology for being away so long. Nobunaga waved the apology away with a hand and asked Yuuri if he wanted any tea before they began. Yuuri shook his head, trying his best not to let his gaze linger on the missing pinkie finger on Nobunaga’s right hand. It was so easy for Yuuri to forget that this unassuming old man was involved with potentially deadly gangs. It was easy for Yuuri to forget that he _himself_ was technically involved with those gangs, too.

 

      Being tattooed was almost a meditative experience for Yuuri. Sure, it didn’t feel pleasant – irezumi was done without any modern tattooing tools; instead, artists used a kind of bamboo brush with needles to hand-poke the ink – but there was worse pain to experience. It wasn’t so bad to lay back on the tatami mats in Nobunaga’s back room and close his eyes while the old man tattooed him. The worst part was really when Yuuri took his shirt off and Nobunaga had smiled and reached out to prod at Yuuri’s soft stomach.

      The style of Yuuri’s tattoo – a deep hikae – was done so the tattoo wasn’t visible when Yuuri wore a shirt. The tattoo came down Yuuri’s chest below his collarbone and around his pectoral, wrapping around his nipple before going back up to cap his shoulder. Even if Yuuri wore a button-up shirt open down to his navel, the tattoo wasn’t visible. Usually, the hikae style would continue down the arm, maybe even to the wrist, but Yuuri had asked Nobunaga to end it above where a t-shirt sleeve would fall for the sake of being discreet – it wouldn’t do for pictures of him training in a t-shirt with a tattoo in obvious irezumi style extending down his forearm to be shown in Japanese media.

      With the sujibori already in place, Nobunaga was working on filling the koi’s scales and the waves around it with color. It seemed to Yuuri to go faster than the line work; when he opened his eyes and glanced down at his chest after laying on the floor for around an hour and a half, he saw that almost all of the koi was filled in with color. Yuuri had left the color decision up to Nobunaga, trusting his experience to find some fitting meaning for Yuuri. Though Yuuri’s chest was pink and irritated from the needles, it was clear that Nobunaga had given the koi a dark red color – not extremely vibrant, but rich and strong.

      Nobunaga touched the koi’s dorsal fin and raised his eyebrows at Yuuri. “This is a color representing strength, Yuuri-kun, and energy. This koi shows your strength not only as a skater and as a member of the Fukuyama ninkyō dantai, but as a person. It is a proud symbol to bear.”

      Yuuri couldn’t exactly bow, laying there on his back, but he brought his hands together – doing his best not to wince when the newly tattooed skin twinged – and hoped his gratitude was clear enough. “Thank you, Nobunaga-sama, for this great honor you have given me.”

      Nobunaga waved his hand like it was nothing, picking up his brush of needles once again and bringing out blue ink to begin filling in the waves that crashed around the koi. Before the initial tattooing began, Yuuri had asked Nobunaga if perhaps making the waves into flames – representative of cleansing – would be more apropos, considering the failure at the GPF Yuuri was desperate to put behind him, but Nobunaga had made a face and said, “Koi fish do not swim in flames, and you have not been reborn, Yuuri-kun. Until then, you should not cast aside the waves. You would do well to learn from the ocean’s fluidity.”

      And that was that.

      It didn’t take longer than five hours for Nobunaga to finish filling in the color of Yuuri’s chest piece. The relatively quick process was in part due to Yuuri’s refusal to take breaks, even when the pain was almost ( _almost_ ) worse than the feeling of losing the GPF, and  Nobunaga’s steady, practiced hand. He had the whole hikae smeared in salve and wrapped in cotton pads and saran wrap before the sun had fully set. Yuuri paid Nobunaga and bowed deeply before letting himself out of the apartment and making his way across Hasetsu to Yu-topia.

 

      Though it had been so long, being back in Hasetsu, walking its streets and seeing its people, felt like putting on an old, worn t-shirt or skating one of Viktor Nikiforov’s junior routines – practiced and comfortable. Yuuri knew every street, nearly every shop owner. He was been born here, had grown up on these streets and these beaches. Hasetsu was a well-kept secret in Kyushu, like the castle that was really a façade for an old ninja house. And truly, that was it: visitors only saw what they wanted to see, what was pretty and convenient. So many would be surprised to learn of the large presence of organized crime members who walked the narrow streets and frequented the family owned businesses. Hasetsu wasn’t like Fukuoka, which was run quite notoriously by designated boryokudan, young street thugs who thought themselves as untouchable as ancient samurai. It was small, familiar – safe.

      Really, the increased involvement of Fukuyama’s ninkyō dantai in Hasetsu could be traced to Katsuki Toshiya. It wasn’t his fault that he was the kind of gregarious drunk who made friends easily; it seemed people were simply drawn to him and his round, open face.

      It had been ten years prior. Yuuri was thirteen and had debuted in juniors singles figure skating. Viktor Nikiforov had just cinched his first gold in the senior singles division at sixteen.

      Toshiya was an avid football fan, and his team – Sagan Tosu – had just earned a much-anticipated victory. The population of Hasetsu hadn’t yet started to dwindle, and Toshiya had a reputation around town as someone who enjoyed a good party. It was no real surprise, then, to have strangers visit Yu-topia to join in on the fun when word was out that something would be celebrated. Yu-topia was, after all, a fantastic place to celebrate. Hiroko was a ridiculously talented chef and Minako was always willing to bring a crate of various liquors over from the snack bar.

      The first mistake had been allowing Toshiya to indulge in all that liquor unchecked. The second had been not realizing how inebriated Toshiya was as he continued to interact with the onsen’s guests in the main room. Of course, it wasn’t Hiroko’s job to babysit her husband, and either way, Toshiya was fairly harmless – he just liked to make friends. Around one of the tables between the television and the bar in the back, a group of men were gathered, playing Oicho-Kabu. Even before getting drunk, Toshiya had been friendly with the group. They supported Sagan Tosu, too, and polite small talk regarding the game was easily had. As both parties became more inebriated, they relaxed enough to exchange their names and talk about life in general. Yuuri even remembered being brought over at one point, with Toshiya loudly telling anyone who would listen that his son would be the next figure skating champion.

      The game of Oicho-Kabu had heated up enough that the players had started to roll their sleeves up to show detailed irezumi tattoos to each other, an act of machismo common even though the game they played was one of chance. One of the men, though, was having a particularly unlucky night. He was rather burly, massive through the shoulders and chest and appearing like a giant among his company though he wasn’t much taller than any of the other men. After drawing the worst hand possible in a game of Oicho-Kabu – an eight, nine, and three – he slammed the cards onto the table and grabbed the dealer by the collar, demanding to know if the deck was rigged. The dealer, being considerably smaller than the unlucky man, shrunk back and denied any tampering with the deck. Perhaps out of desperation, he grabbed Toshiya, who had been passing by with a pitcher of beer, by the sleeve and asked for his help.

      Toshiya, who did his best to be helpful even when stone-cold sober, happily set the pitcher down and sat in the middle of the group of men. He either didn’t see the obvious yakuza tattoos or didn’t connect the money on the table and the game of Oicho-Kabu to what the Japanese law enforcement called ‘bōryokudan’ – or perhaps he didn’t care, focusing instead on their new friendship. The dealer shuffled the kabufuda cards and dealt them, instructing Toshiya to show his hand to the group. Toshiya warned his new friends that he hadn’t played Oicho-Kabu in many years, but obliged. By a stroke of luck, he had a winning hand.

      The initial man, of course, was incensed. He stood dramatically, bumping the table and nearly spilling the pitcher of beer (which Toshiya thankfully saved – Mari would no doubt convince Hiroko to ban Toshiya from drinking if he turned up with _another_ broken pitcher).

      To his credit, Toshiya remained calm, spreading his hands amicably. “It was just luck, my friend. After all, I have nothing to gain in this game!”

      The burly man considered this, stroking his goatee for a moment before sitting back down. He didn’t ask, but plucked the deck of kabufuda from the dealer. “I’ll shuffle this time, and you’ll draw another hand.”

      Toshiya shrugged. He didn’t have a problem with that. The burly man looked through the deck, ensuring that there were four complete sets of ten numerical cards, before he dealt them. Toshiya displayed another winning hand.

      The burly man gasped, taking Toshiya’s cards to examine himself. “Incredible,” he said.

      After that, Toshiya was invited to join in on the game properly. The burly man introduced himself as Yamamoto Shinobu. It wasn’t long before Toshiya was all but telling the men his life story. And apparently without effort, he managed to draw winning cards in the next three rounds of the game. Yamamoto seemed especially taken with Toshiya and his supreme hospitality. The group stayed long after the rest of the guests had left. Toshiya entertained them into the wee hours of the morning, when even he began to tire. Earnestly, though, he invited Yamamoto’s group to come back to the onsen and enjoy the hot springs the next day.

      Somewhat awkwardly, Yamamoto had taken a moment to mull this over. Any other person would’ve been able to draw the connection between a group of tattooed, gambling men and the yakuza. At the very least, the tattoos now fully visible would’ve deterred most owners of hot springs – stretching back hundreds and hundreds of years, tattoos were looked down on by society in Japan, associated with criminality and uncleanliness. Almost every traditional onsen had signs turning away tattooed people. But here was Katsuki Toshiya, proprietor of Yu-topia, inviting a band of yakuza to bathe in the hot springs.

      Toshiya was still waiting patiently for a response, so Yamamoto pushed his shirtsleeve up past his elbow and gestured to the vibrant, hand-poked tattoo that encompassed his skin like a second sleeve, stopping just short of his wrist. “We all have tattoos, Katsuki-san,”

      Toshiya had only smiled. “Yes, yes, that’s fine—“

      “We are private people, we don’t—“

      “You don’t need to explain, Yamamoto-san. If you are interested, there are more private areas of the hot springs.”

      And so began the interesting relationship between the local ninkyō dantai and the Katsuki family. Originally, Yamamoto – who was a shateigashira, or regional boss – would only visit occasionally to use the hot springs and catch up with Toshiya, with whom he became friends. Yamamoto would always tip well out of courtesy. In spite of his rough outward appearance, he seemed to be a fairly well-rounded individual. Sure, it became increasingly clear that he was most definitely involved in racketeering and peddling of illegal goods, but he didn’t take from local family businesses. He didn’t harass any women or sell drugs to children. As far as criminals went, Yamamoto wasn’t the worst kind.

      Not long into the local group’s involvement with the Katsukis, Yamamoto brought a man named Fukuyama to Yu-topia. Fukuyama was effectively Yamamoto’s boss; he was a wakagashira, responsible for a number of yakuza groups in the Saga Prefecture. Even though Yamamoto controlled people directly under him, his actions as a whole were governed by Fukuyama, who in turn carried out the wishes of the oyabun, who oversaw the entire syndicate of regional groups. Like Yamamoto, Fukuyama was more laid back than movies and the media tended to portray yakuza members. He did exactly what he said, didn’t uphold false pretenses.

      Within a few minutes of meeting the Katsukis, he asked Toshiya and Hiroko if they would become partners to the yakuza. They wouldn’t partake in sakazuki, but would pay patronage to the oyabun like the other yakuza members did in the form of a percentage of their earnings. In turn, they would experience an influx of revenue from increased patronage – if the Katsukis were willing to open their onsen to them, there were many members of the yakuza who had been kept from hot springs since receiving their first tattoo. Eventually, Yu-topia was also a site used for small gambling rings – first Fukuyama took a cut for the oyabun, but the Katsukis were allowed a percentage, too. Yamamoto swore up and down that something about the Katsuki family was lucky, and that seemed to be true.

      Overall, it was a lucrative deal. It benefitted not just Yu-topia, but other aspects of Hasetsu as well. Where Yamamoto’s ninkyō dantai didn’t protect other stores from going under as the economy began to decline, it did bring people from around the Saga Prefecture into the small town. It allowed some businesses to hang on longer than others, that was certain.

      Fukuyama and Yamamoto hadn’t pressured either Mari or Yuuri to join in on any of their activities. Yakuzas generally tore families apart – once you swore alliance to an oyabun, you effectively had a new family, and were expected to cut ties with the one you were born into. Mari had made her own position with the ninkyō dantai, though. As a rule, women weren’t a part of the syndicates of organized crime, save for the wives of more important members. Mari wasn’t about to marry one of Yamamoto’s men. She did, however, have a knack for communicating with various members of the ninkyō dantai, and because of this came to more or less represent the interests of Yu-topia in regards to the other groups controlled by Fukuyama. She was, like her father, laid back and hard to rattle – but like Hiroko, Mari had a good mind for business. When she was younger, some of the shatei who came to visit the onsen would flirt and tease her. They quickly learned that, more than just a pretty face, Mari had a sharp right hook. Older members of Yamamoto’s yakuza doted on her, though. Many hadn’t married or hadn’t had children; they called her ‘granddaughter’ and brought her presents of imported cigarettes and small knives with pretty detailing.

      Yuuri took much longer to become comfortable with the criminals that seemed to swarm through his home like bugs. Even though he was fairly young – thirteen – when the merger between Yu-topia and Fukuyama’s group came about, it was difficult for him to adjust. For a long while, seeing the nub of some of their fingers and thinking about the practice of yubitsume made him sick to his stomach. Instead, Yuuri spent more time at the Ice Palace and at Minako’s dance studio. They allowed him in at odd hours to skate or dance until his racing thoughts settled.

      To him, this was the best part of the situation with the yakuza. Not only could Yuuri spend time away from the onsen, training and becoming more confident in his own abilities, but there was just a bit more money in the budget that allowed him to continue training. That had been something else he’d fretted over at far too young an age; he hadn’t felt worthy of his parents funding his expensive skates, outfits, or competition fee. Though they hadn’t hesitated, so happy to see their quiet, reserved boy fall so in love with a sport – an art – Yuuri still couldn’t help but feel like a hindrance. With the increased patronage of yakuza members, the feeling of being a hindrance started to fall away.

      There had been a time when Viktor Nikiforov had suffered a nasty injury at eighteen, right as he was gearing up in the season, poised to win the World Championships, and disappeared from the skating world. Though for a long time Yuuri didn’t admit it, this made him consider quitting, too. For so long his dream had been to skate on the same ice as Viktor. When articles on Viktor’s progress in physical therapy stopped coming the next year, fifteen-year-old Yuuri found himself contemplating properly joining the Yakuza for the first time.

      He’d gone to see Yamamoto one evening, after spending hours talking himself into it. Yamamoto had spent the day soaking in the onsen and gorging himself on Hiroko’s katsudon dish, and was now lounging in the dining room with a glass of beer. Yuuri, too anxious to properly lead up to his request, instead bowed deeply and asked (face still close to the floor) if Yamamoto would take Yuuri on as a shatei in the ninkyō dantai. Yamamoto was quiet for a moment, as if trying to understand what it was that Yuuri had said, and then burst into peals of laughter that came straight from his belly.

      “No, Yuuri-kun, I don’t think so.”

      When Yuuri looked up, eyes wide with surprised hurt, Yamamoto sighed. “You’re a good kid, Yuuri-kun. And your parents have given you many opportunities for greatness. You don’t need the ninkyō dantai – right now, make yourself strong with your skating. Make yourself proud – make _us_ proud. In this life, that strength and power is what gets you places.”

      Yuuri was silent, rolling Yamamoto’s words around in his mind.

      Yamamoto continued, “And your father tells us all the time of how you’re going to be the next Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri-kun. That ambition is enviable for one so young to have. But if in a few years you still feel this way, come and talk to me again.”

      In the end, it was Yamamoto who brought the ninkyō dantai up to Yuuri, a few years later. Yuuri had graduated from high school, and with his progress through junior’s skating there was talk of him leaving Hasetsu to train and study in America.

      “You’re one of Japan’s finest skaters, Yuuri-kun,” Yamamoto had said, earnestly leaning toward Yuuri, who was walking past with a tray of empty glasses. Something in his tone had compelled Yuuri to rush to the kitchen, swap the dirty glasses for a pitcher of beer Mari had been fixing to take to a different table, and return to Yamamoto with it.

      Yuuri didn’t accept praise very well, but he let Yamamoto wax on over Yuuri’s most recent accomplishments, his certification with the ISU, being contacted by a premier coach named Celestino Cialdini in America – these were things Yamamoto had only heard from Toshiya or Mari, but the interest Yamamoto was showing still made Yuuri’s cheeks turn pink.

      “Do you recall when you asked me to bring you into the ninkyō dantai when you were a young boy, maybe thirteen?”

      He’d been fifteen. Yuuri nodded.

      “There are things now that you can do for us, Yuuri-kun – things you weren’t yet capable of when you were younger.”

      Yuuri nodded again, slower. “Respectfully, Yamamoto-san, what are you positing?”

      Yamamoto smiled at Yuuri’s careful choice of words. “Now your face is becoming known throughout Japan, so we can’t have you leaning on any shopowners for them to pay money, if that’s what you were worried about. But you skate well, Yuuri-kun, and people will come to see you. They will want to meet you.”

      Yuuri squirmed, a little uncomfortably. He didn’t know how he’d do, being sought out like that. Yamamoto considered Yuuri’s discomfort.

      “Don’t underestimate the power you have over people. You doubt yourself, but Yuuri-kun, you have a lot of charisma. People are drawn to you. I feel that if we made you something like a shatei – I won’t ask you to give up your family – you could help our ninkyō dantai even from America.”

      “Yamamoto-san, you are very much my family, though we are not blood, and I am grateful for the support and guidance you have given me over the years. I would be proud to represent out ninkyō dantai while in America.” Yuuri had replied, sounding much more confident than he felt.

      Before Yuuri had left for Detroit, someone had passed Celestino Cialdini’s phone number on to Yamamoto. In some bastardized version of a shovel talk, Yamamoto had called to hint just enough at Yuuri’s hometown importance and tell Celestino to take care of him. They’d all been surprised when Celestino coolly replied that, for the sake of peace between the Licavoli family and the yakuza, as well as because of Yuuri’s importance as a skater, he’d be well-looked after. Some quick research showed that the Licavoli family was an offshoot of the Italian-American mafia based in Cleveland, Ohio associated with yet another American mafia called the Detroit Partnership – Ohio seemed to Yuuri a fair distance from Detroit, but he didn’t question it.

      The focus once in America was completely on skating. Before leaving Hasetsu, though, Yamamoto had suggested Yuuri get an irezumi piece as a kind of guiding, protecting symbol for his journey as a figure skating. Every time Yuuri looked in the mirror after getting out of the shower or glanced down while changing into workout clothes after class, he caught sight of the koi and was reminded about where his foundations lay. When he turned twenty, the Licavoli family and Fukuyama had reached an agreement that had Yuuri guiding tourists wanting to see more of America to casinos and clubs run by the Licavoli family, for which the Fukuyama yakuza received a finder’s fee. Yuuri didn’t feel too bad about steering unassuming people into situations where their money would be skimmed; if they already were putting themselves in a situation to spend money frivolously, it was just fine with him knowing that some of that money would go to the yakuza, which in turn protected and supported local families and even aided Japanese communities in the face of disasters.

      Phichit, who was a Thai skater several years younger than Yuuri that skated under Celestino, never asked Yuuri about the tattoo, never tried to exploit it. This was just as well, because Phichit had a large social media presence and Yuuri knew Yamamoto and Fukuyama wouldn’t be pleased to find Nobunaga’s art all over the internet. Even when they’d get drunk off their asses in the apartment they came to share, when Yuuri would be persuaded to show off some of the moves he’d learned in the extracurricular pole dancing class Minako had suggested he take, Phichit didn’t say anything about the bold, dark lines of ink Yuuri kept hidden. He seemed to take the large koi on Yuuri’s chest as just another secret about his friend, and didn’t pry. He didn’t ask when Yuuri would leave for afternoons without much explanation, he didn’t inquire about the meetings Celestino and Yuuri would sometimes miss practice time for. Instead, if Phichit was going to tease Yuuri, it usually had to do with the papering of their apartment walls with posters of Viktor Nikiforov, and Yuuri could take teasing about the man he’d looked up to/been in love with since childhood any day.

      He appreciated Phichit more than he knew how to say.

      Leaving Detroit had been a decision Yuuri made while he was hurting after Vicchan dying and losing the GPF so spectacularly; it was a decision he stubbornly refused to change, even when he started feeling somewhat better. After all, the merger Fukuyama had suggested, moving in to Detroit to establish more of a presence with the aid of the Lucavoli family, hadn’t gone through due to a larger Chicago-based yakuza and their agreements already in place with the Detroit Partnership. This was as good a time as ever to go home.

 

      It was good being back in Hasetsu, though. By the time Yuuri made it back to Yu-topia from Nobunaga’s, the sun was just setting enough to bathe everything in a violet glow. Before he’d even fully walked inside, he could smell his mother’s cooking. He wandered through the kitchen to give her a hug like he hadn’t in the turmoil after his initial arrival home. She patted his cheek fondly.

      “I’m so proud of you, Yuuri,” she said to him, and there was such honesty in her voice that in spite of himself, Yuuri teared up.

      Hiroko handed him a large bowl of katsudon and sent him to the main dining room to eat. Minako was already there, sprawled at a table in front of the TV with several empty glasses around her. The Figure Skating World Championship was on, giving a run-down of the group two skaters who had just finished their performances. 

      As if Minako knew Yuuri was behind her, she sighed dramatically and said, “Man, I _really_ wanted to go. If only you’d been in it, Yuuri… You could’ve told me the other skaters’ hotel room numbers…”

      Yuuri put his food down on the table behind Minako’s and snapped, “I _wouldn’t_ tell you!”

      To her credit, Minako didn’t jump at Yuuri’s voice, though she did give him a nasty side-eye as he continued, “You expect me to score you tickets all the time like I’m a one-man ticket agency, don’t you?”

      Minako protested, “That’s not true! I’ve been _supporting_ you,”

      Yuuri rolled his eyes and sat down to start on his katsudon. Of course, then the footage of the competition on TV cut to a gratuitous shot of Viktor Nikiforov warming up. He’d be the last to skate in the competition. The commentators were prattling on about how this was new territory for figure skating – Viktor was skating for his fifth consecutive World Championship gold. He didn’t even look human, his eyes closed and color washed out by the fluorescent lights of the rink – Viktor was ethereal, even in Russia’s uniform track suit.

      As Yuuri watched, one of Yamamoto’s men – Takeaki – leaned over, reaching for the remote on Minako’s table, muttering something about a Sagan Tosu game. Minako made an ugly sound and immediately slipped into a modified arabesque to try and snatch the remote back from Takeaki, arguing the whole time about how she’d been watching figure skating first.

      Behind Yuuri, Toshiya poked his head out of the office, saying, “Sagan Tosu?”

      Takeaki paused from arguing with Minako to say, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

      It was enough for Yuuri to slip out of the chaos in the dining room, leaving his dinner uneaten. As he jogged through the garden towards the main street of Hasetsu, he passed his mother unloading crates from the van.

      “Oh, Yuuri. Where are you going?” she asked.

      Yuuri didn’t stop. “Sorry, I’m going to practice for a bit.”

      “Take care!” she called after him, but didn’t ask any questions.

      Yuuri was somewhat out of breath before he’d even made it halfway to the rink, but he didn’t slow his pace. Like being tattooed, there were times when his stubbornness was stronger than pain.

 

      “Excuse me,” Yuuri called, breathless, as he walked through the automatic sliding doors of the rink.

      Behind the counter, a woman he couldn’t see from the door said, “Our regular hours are over.” She looked over her shoulder though, as Yuuri stepped properly into the lobby. He awkwardly toed at the floor.

      “It’s been a while, Yuuko-san,” he started.

      Yuuko leaned against the counter toward him. “ _Yuuri_ -kun?” she demanded, obviously shocked. Yuuri nodded, a nervous smile taking his face. He felt like a little kid again, looking at his old friend.

      “Oh, come on!” Yuuko said loudly, a massive grin on her face. “Call me ‘Yu-chan’!”

      “S-sorry,” Yuuri started to say, but Yuuko continued, “Oh, you came to skate, right? Go ahead.”

      “Huh? I can?”

      “Yeah, you just want to skate alone right now, right?” Yuuko asked, looking earnest. She gave him a conspirator’s wink. “I’ll protect you.”

      Yuuri was taken aback by Yuuko’s generosity. “Thank you.”

      Yuuko was his childhood rinkmate, two years older than him. When they were little, she was a better skater than Yuuri, and he’d looked up to her as an idol. To Yuuri, she’d always been something of divinity. Now, at twenty-five and the mother to triplets, she was as pretty as ever with her big brown eyes and easy, sweet smile. Yuuri remembered learning to skate and being so proud to show Yuuko what he’d learned. She’d always fawn over whatever miniscule progress he’d made – and she’d stand up for him when Nishigori Takeshi, another one of their rinkmates, would call Yuuri fat and intimidate him. Nowadays, Nishigori and Yuuko were married and the relationship between him and Yuuri was one of confidence and friendship. Things had changed.

      But something that had stayed the same was the love Yuuko and Yuuri had instilled in Viktor Nikiforov. It was Yuuko, after all, who had first shown Yuuri the Russian juniors skater breaking barriers and sweeping competition. Yuuri had been enamored the first time he saw Viktor with his waist-length platinum hair, the black and red half-skirt of the outfit he’d broken a junior world record in.

      From then on, Yuuko and Yuuri would make a game out of memorizing Viktor’s routines, skating them together with Yuuko narrating their every jump. She’d bring in skating otaku magazines and share articles on Viktor with Yuuri. When they came across one talking about the standard poodle, Makkachin, that was Viktor’s constant companion, it was only a few weeks before Yuuri was bringing his own new poodle puppy to the rink to show Yuuko. Of course, his own poodle was a chestnut toy size, not a big beige standard poodle, but Yuuri loved him all the same, and named him ‘Vicchan’ after Viktor.

      “Wow, you really like Viktor, huh?” Yuuko had asked, no trace of teasing or malice in her voice. “I hope one day I can watch you skate against him!”

      And since then, that had been Yuuri’s very goal. Of course, now it didn’t look like that was going to ever happen.

      “Yu-chan?” Yuuri called tentatively when he’d gotten his skates on. Yuuko met his eyes and didn’t ask questions, just silently followed him through the door to the rink. She took his skateguards and held a hand out for his glasses without being prompted. It was almost as if Yuuri hadn’t really been away so long, after all.

      “Um, I wanted you to see this,” Yuuri began, “so I’ve been practicing it since the competitions ended.” He didn’t need to clarify that he’d failed spectacularly in the GPF, that that was why he’d had time to practice this. Yuuko knew.

      “Please watch,” he said, moving out to the center of the ice.

 

      At Yu-topia, Minako was leaning forward over her table, eyes fixed intently on Viktor Nikiforov, who skated across the screen, each movement practiced and sure. He wore a mauve and rose jacket, gold epaulettes and buttons catching the light with each twist he made. Minako had won control of the remote, and she wasn’t letting it go, not now.

      “ _Yes_ , Viktor! Get ‘em!” she cheered, slapping the table with enough force that the bottles that had accrued there clinked against one another. “Hey, _Yuuri_! Your boy Viktor is about to skate,” she called over her shoulder.

      Hiroko came over with a tray of food. “He’s not back yet.”

 

      There wasn’t any music playing to accompany Yuuri’s skate. He took a starting pose in the center of the ice, held it, hearing the music so clearly in his mind that to have it play through the speakers would be overkill.

      Against the boards, Yuuko’s eyes widened. She recognized that stance Yuuri had taken. “This is…”

 

      The announcers narrated Viktor’s program before he’d taken the cue to start. Over a mournful, custom composed opera, they announced that Viktor had an ambitious four quads planned. First, there was a quad lutz (clean); next, a difficult quad flip, Viktor’s signature jump (also clean).

 

      Yuuri wasn’t even attempting quads. He’d downgraded the quads in the program to triples and one double – there was no need to fall on his ass trying to prove a point. Anyway, his shoulder was already aching from being tattooed hours earlier; there was only so much he was going to put his body through. He hoped Yuuko understood what he was doing, anyway. He had to touch down briefly to push his momentum on while doing a spin, and hated it. _This isn’t a competition, I’m only skating for Yu-chan_ , he reminded himself. As he continued the program, he couldn’t keep a flicker of a smile off his lips.

 

      “Given that he has millions of female fans around the world, he’s sure free with his charms,” Minako slurred, eyes fixed on Viktor’s form. He looked like he was lamenting, his face as mournful as the song he skated to – the announcers said it was called ‘Stay Close To Me’. Hiroko stood behind Minako, one eye on the TV and one on Minako’s swaying form.

      “You’re drinking too much, Minako-senpai,” she chided. On screen, Viktor landed a textbook quadruple Salchow.

      “This would tug at the heartstrings more if it were a younger, more naïve man.” Minako said, ignoring Hiroko. “Not a hottie like Viktor, but… let me think…”

 

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare/Ho paura di perderti_ .This is where the music would swell, if it was playing. Yuuri skated only to what he heard in his head, but he felt the crescendo all the same. Jumps in the second half were technically more difficult, with the stamina of skaters being put to the test. Here in the program, with the chorus of the song being reached, there was swirling, sweeping step work. Yuuri let the music only he heard carry his body.

 

      A triple lutz – the finale was close. Next, Viktor landed a triple flip, and the audience was beside itself cheering.

 

      Yuuko gasped. Yuuri was close to the boards, moving his arms through the air with the string section of the opera. He smiled at his old friend, proud to see that there were tears in her eyes – it seemed she understood exactly what Yuuri was trying to say with his skate. Then he moved back, preparing himself for what would technically be the last quad of the program.

 

      “A quadruple toe loop, followed by a triple toe loop! He’s landed all his quads!” the announcers were saying. They were almost drowned out by the screams and cheers – and no doubt, tears – from the audience. “And now a combination spin –“

 

      The end pose always seemed like a triumphant one, odd after such a mournful performance, but Yuuri came out of the combination spin and took it anyway, arms crossed and looking skyward. He panted loudly in the quiet rink, dripping sweat and horribly out of breath. From the boards, there was a squeaky gasp, and he was shocked to look over to see Yuuko leaning over the ice.

      “That was _super cool_ ,” she shrieked, and it was like they were children again. “A perfect copy of Viktor! Awesome!” she was pounding on the boards for emphasis, rattling Yuuri’s glasses and skate guards. “I thought you’d be _depressed_ or something –“

      Yuuri smiled and looked down. “I was. But I got bored of feeling depressed, so I got to thinking… I wanted to get my love of skating back. I thought I could remember how it was when you and I would copy Viktor. Yu-chan, I’ve –‘’ Yuuri broke off, a sudden lump in his throat. How could he explain?

 

      The competition was over. The screen was showing the victors in front of a backdrop and a dozen flashbulbs, the announcers saying, “We now have a men’s singles five-time consecutive winner in the World’s Figure Skating Championships! The victor is Russia’s Viktor Nikiforov.”

      A reporter asked, “What do you have in mind for next season?”

      Viktor made a show of raising a finger to his lips, apparently deep in thought. He looked away.

 

      Yuuri began again. “I’ve always–“ he didn’t get a chance to finish, though. Three round faces popped up from behind the boards, and Yuuko smiled proudly.

      “Axel, Lutz and Loop! Haven’t they grown since you last saw them?”

      Yuuri did his best not to recoil. The triplets had been infants when Yuuri left for America. “Y-yeah,” he stuttered.

      One of them – they were identical, but he thought it was Axel – chirped, “Yuuri, you really _did_ get fat!”

      Loop said, “Are you really retiring?”

      Lutz said, “You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

      “Hey!” Yuuko yelled, to which the triplets replied with a quieter chorus of _‘really, really, really?_ ’ Looking apologetically to Yuuri, she said, “I’m sorry my girls are such groupies!”

      Behind him, someone was skating over. “They’re all fans of yours, Yuuri.”

      “Nishigori,” Yuuri said, though it sounded more like a whine as Nishigori slung an arm around his shoulder, unintentionally pinching the koi underneath.

      “Welcome back!” Nishigori said. The triplets left Yuuko’s side to swarm around Yuuri and Nishigori’s ankles, chanting, “dad, dad, dad!” Nishigori wasn’t done, though, and much like Minako had done he reached for Yuuri’s shirt to expose the soft belly underneath. “You’re fatter than _me_ now.” They weren’t kids anymore, and Nishigori’s tone was laced with fondness – and either way, they all knew Yuuri was nowhere near Nishigori’s size, as he was built much like a brick house.

      Yuuri’s protests fell on deaf ears as the triplets jumped around him, prodding at his stomach. It wasn’t all bad, though.

      “You can come any time to practice,” Nishigori said as Yuuri gathered his things to leave. “The Nishigori family’s always got your back.” Nishigori wasn’t a member of the yakuza, but he’d known Yuuri a long time, and Yuuri knew he and Yuuko had some inkling. For them to still unwaveringly support him, Yuuri felt endlessly lucky. Even when he felt alone, here was proof that he was loved and appreciated for who he was as a person, not as an asset or even as a decent skater.

      One of the triplets crowed, “Yuuri, go, go!” and another said, “Yuuri, lose the weight!”

      Yuuri had used skating as a means of escape for so long in his life. What would it take now to keep skating on his own?

 

      He got up early the next morning – to be fair, he hadn’t really slept – and went out to one of the gardens behind the onsen to do some cardio. Cherry blossoms caught in the cool spring wind and rained around him as he exercised. All the while, his mind spiraled through thoughts of his future. _If I work hard at this, maybe I can keep skating. Maybe there’s still some way for me to skate against Viktor_ , he thought.

      After a shower around midmorning, he walked into the main room of Yu-topia to see that the sports network they usually kept the TV tuned to was playing a special on the Russian skaters, one of Viktor’s rinkmates in particular: _Rising Star in Russia, Yuri Plisetsky, age 15_. There was a short blond boy looping around the rink – with an icy stab in his stomach, Yuuri recognized the kid as Yuri Plisetsky. After his failure at the GPF Yuuri had gone into a cubicle in the restroom and called his mother, apologized for his failure and subsequently broken down in tears. The kid had all but kicked the cubicle door down, shouting in his heavily accented English that Yuuri should retire already, as there was no room in their division for two ‘Yuri’s. Yuuri had been shocked into silence then – how did you even respond in a situation like that? _‘I’m actually a member of an imposing crime syndicate and you should watch your back, punk?’_ no, that wasn’t right…

      Now as he watched, the kid jumped a clean quad. The bald headed coach Yuuri recognized as Viktor’s didn’t even bat an eye.

      “What the hell’s with that _jump_?” Yuuri said aloud. “Oh, god, _another_ one?”

      The feature cut to a shot of Viktor and the kid Yuri leaning on the boards, apparently deep in conversation. _Just retire already_ , Yuuri could hear the kid saying over and over in his mind. The TV was still waxing on about how Russia was ushering in a new era of champions with Viktor and the Plisetsky kid. All day, Yuuri couldn’t get it out of his mind.

      That evening, he sat at his desk and looked around at all the posters in his room of Viktor – Viktor skating in the junior division with his long, shining hair; Viktor modeling in an ad torn from one of Yuuko’s skater otaku magazines, massive images of Viktor decked out in all his gold medals. The pressure was on now, if Yuuri was to return to the world of skating. But there was no question in his mind – Yuuri had to be on the same ice as Viktor once more. He _had_ to. And even though he’d come all this way, prepared to settle fully in with the ninkyō dantai with the thought that his career was over – no. He couldn’t give up quite yet. They’d understand, wouldn’t they?

      Yuuri’s phone chimed, breaking him out of his reverie. It was just past eight on a Monday night; he hadn’t been expecting to hear from anyone. To his surprise, it was a notification for Nishigori, a text containing a link. Halfway expecting it to be a meme of Yuuri’s face photoshopped over Viktor’s dog’s face (there had been quite a few of those several years back, sometimes Nishigori would randomly send one to Yuuri just for a laugh), Yuuri clicked through the link. It redirected him to YouTube.

_[Katsuki Yuuri] Tried to Skate Viktor’s FS Program [Stay Close To Me]._

      Yuuri’s heart dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. The phone was ringing now, and Yuuri accepted the call without thinking, wide-eyed and numb.

      “I- I’m sorry, Yuuri, the girls must’ve secretly filmed you skating. They uploaded the video and… it’s gone viral,” Nishigori whispered into the phone. In the background, Yuuri could hear Yuuko yelling at the triplets, and their mingled cries and justifications. _“Delete it!”_ Yuuko yelled, but Yuuri didn’t bother listening to anymore.

      He hung up the phone, chucked it to the side, and stared blankly at the floor in front of him. He’d just slumped to the side, resigned to go to sleep (maybe this was just a bad dream) when his door opened and Minako leaned in.

      “What’s with that _video_? It’s being shared everywhere!”

 

      Viktor was a popular person. This wasn’t vain, it was the truth. He adored his fans, truly loved hearing from them, but sometimes the attention on social media sites was just too much. Because of this, his notifications had been, for the most part, deactivated across the board. Occasionally, he’d go and try to reply to comments on his Instagram or favorite tweets mentioning him on Twitter, but that was it. Viktor knew there were plenty of young skaters who were constantly updating their fanbases with each detail of their day, and while that worked for them, it would never work for him.

      With his notifications all turned off, it was almost midmorning when Viktor finally saw the video.

      Yakov, Mila, Georgi, Yuri, and an assortment of Russian politicians and officials were the exceptions to the notification wall Viktor had on his phone. Even so, it was usually a few hours before Viktor returned texts or calls.

      Mila had texted him a link with the message _is this your boy?_ and a cursory glance at the unanswered texts from Georgi and Yuri showed that they all held the same link. Curiosity getting the best of him, Viktor clicked the link and was taken to a loading page for YouTube.

      Whatever he’d been expecting to see, it wasn’t a man in baggy sweats standing in the middle of the ice in _Viktor’s starting pose_. The skate wasn’t perfect with the quads all downgraded to triples and some incidents where the skater touched down to keep balanced, but there was something mesmerizing about the sway of the man’s hips. It was like he held the music in his body – it was a _part_ of him. And there was something – something _familiar_ about his sweeping movements, something that went further than just the routine that Viktor knew backwards and forwards.

      With a jolt, he realized he _knew_ this man. This was the man who’d been drunk off champagne at the Grand Prix Final Banquet, the one who’d pole danced with Christophe and afterwards fallen into Viktor’s arms, all warm, soft skin smelling of alcohol and sweat and cheap cologne, imploring Viktor to come to Japan to be his coach. _Holy shit_ , Viktor thought, replaying the video, _holy shit_. He’d not had any contact from the young man since then, figured he’d changed his mind about the whole thing, even after taking Viktor by the tie and pulling him onto the dancefloor with him, grinding against him and laughing, his face as bright and happy as the sun. But this was a clear message – the way the young man’s face was a mask of longing, his movements on the ice clearly beckoning to Viktor.

      He had made up his mind within minutes.

 

      Yuuri hadn’t left his room in more than a day except to use the bathroom and change the wrappings on his fresh tattoo. It was nearly noon on Wednesday, and from what he could hear, there was a lull in activity at the onsen. Yuuri was under his blankets, aware that his bedroom was washed in a whitish light that reminded him of early March in the Detroit apartment he’d shared with Phichit.

      Hiroko was outside his room. She knocked softly, though she must know he was awake, and called, “Yuuri, come on, don’t hole up in your room. At least come help shovel snow.”

      Snow? Blearily, Yuuri sat up and put his glasses on. What did his mother mean, _snow_? He felt strangely, like he’d been asleep for six months and perhaps woken up in autumn. When he reached for his phone, though, he found the screen blank. “Right,” he muttered to himself. He’d turned it off after… after… _ugh_. He dropped it back onto the bed and sat up on his knees to pull back the curtains on the window over his bed.

      “What the hell?” he said, looking at the cherry blossom tree outside his window. Sure enough, it was covered in snow, wilting the light pink blossoms. “It’s already the second week of April, too,” he said, louder.

      Outside his door, he heard Hiroko chuckle. Before he heard her steps go back down the hall, she said, “Good morning, Yuuri. Why don’t you check the news?”

      Yuuri’s phone was still turning on, slowed by the backlog of notifications. He stretched idly in the cold, stagnant air of his bedroom, waiting. Growing bored waiting, though, he left the phone on his bed while he dressed and went downstairs to grab a shovel and start clearing snow for his mother.

      When he opened Yu-topia’s back door, ready to trudge into snow he thought he’d left behind in Michigan, Yuuri was greeted by a dog’s loud barks. He was shocked to come face-to-face with a brown poodle.

      Knowing it wasn’t right even as the name passed his lips, Yuuri asked, “Vicchan?”

      The dog barked though, as if in confirmation, jumping up and planting its paws square on Yuuri’s chest and knocking him to the ground. Yuuri groaned at the contact with his tattoo, which was slightly bruised (as some tattoos tend to do, especially hand-poked ones), but was quickly laughing as the dog set to licking Yuuri all around his face.

      “No, you’re not Vicchan,” he laughed, patting the dog’s side. “You’re much larger than he was.”

      The poodle leaned its forelegs on Yuuri’s stomach and put its paw on top, whining when Yuuri stopped petting him. There was something so familiar about this dog, and Yuuri couldn’t quite place it. Half joking, he said to the dog, “You’re not – no, you _couldn’t_ be Makkachin…”

      The dog tilted its head sideways at that, and something like excitement inexplicably flared in Yuuri’s stomach. _This is just a coincidence, it’s just a coincidence_.

      “Yuuri!” Toshiya said, walking over to where Yuuri still lay on the ground, the poodle on top of him. “He looks just like Vicchan, huh? Came today with a really handsome foreigner.”

      He – he what? No, it couldn’t be. Toshiya continued, “His owner is in the hot springs now.”

      Yuuri didn’t stop to think or hear any more. He scrambled to his feet and ran. His father called after him, asking what was wrong, but Yuuri didn’t stop, even when he knocked into a display of soaps and mineral salts. _This isn’t real, this isn’t happening, this isn’t real_ , he thought over and over. Yuuri bolted through the changing room and the showers, which were empty. He ducked into the main hot springs – nothing. That meant that, for some reason, the foreign guest had been shown to the private part of the onsen, the area usually reserved for members of the ninkyō dantai. _Oh, what the_ hell _is going on here?_ Yuuri lamented, finally stumbling through that door and into the outdoor hot spring.

      And there he was. Yuuri was frozen, staring across a short distance to where Viktor Nikiforov was submerged in the hot springs up to his neck. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck,_ Yuuri thought, eyes wide. “Viktor, what are you doing here?” he whispered.

      Viktor’s eyes widened – in recognition? No, _surely_ not – and stood, apparently not minding that he was fully naked. With a flourish, he stretched an arm out to Yuuri and practically purred in his Russian-accented English, “ _Yuuri_ , starting today I’m going to be your coach,” he shifted a little so he wasn’t just standing in profile to Yuuri and puffed his chest out. “I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final,” he added with a wink.

      Yuuri’s surprised gasp quickly became something of a yell. Viktor’s torso was inked with several, unmistakable Russian criminal-style tattoos.

      He forced himself to look away, to not indulge in the chiseled lines of Viktor’s body that he was clearly displaying, forced himself to get a grip on his wildly spinning thoughts. _Well, it’s genius of him_ , Yuuri thought, _he never ceases to surprise me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and will tune in to read the next! They aren't as lengthy as this one, so don't let this 11k behemoth scare you away... Sharing this is something I've been super excited to do, so any kind of feedback is appreciated. If you have any questions or comments you want answered more directly, find me on tumblr [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> TERMINOLOGY (I'm not an expert nor a member of a unit of crime, this is just what I've picked up from excessive research! Please forgive any mistakes)  
> ninkyō dantai - "chivalrous organization", the phrase yakuza members use to refer to themselves  
> oyabun - the "boss" of a yakuza group  
> irezumi - the art style associated with hand-poked tattoos once exclusive to yakuza members  
> hikae - a position/style of irezumi. a helpful visual on different hikae/irezumi styles is [here](http://tattoo-flash1.tumblr.com/post/66511401783/bodysuit)  
> shateigashira - a local boss, governs a regional gang. "2nd lieutenant"  
> wakagashira - second in the chain of command for a yakuza group; with a fuku-honbucho, governs regional gangs. "1st lieutenant"  
> shatei - "little brother"; a yakuza member of low ranking


	2. You Make Me Feel Like A Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Viktor's arrival in Hasetsu, Yuuri is expected to answer some hard questions - but first, he's got to wrap his mind around the notion of being coached by figure skating's own living legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **the angst is a little more intense in this chapter, just a heads up, but it's more or less like this through the rest of the story**  
> I'll probably post my spotify playlist for this fic soon, but it's pretty massive. Instead, I made an 8tracks playlist for both [Yuuri](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/katsuki-yuuri-btsats) and [Viktor](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/viktor-nikiforov-btsats), and you can check them out by clicking the link attached to their respective names.
> 
> explanations for terminology can be found in the end notes

      “ _Vitya_ , don’t leave. Stay here.”

      Yakov had been arguing with his star skater on the phone for hours, only to catch him walking dramatically through the snow on the Tuchkov Bridge while Yakov was driving the short distance between his apartment and the rink, where he’d figured Viktor was. Naturally, Viktor had stashed his luggage in the locker room at Yubileyny earlier in the day. He’d let Yakov argue with him all afternoon with no intention of listening to single thing he had to say. And now, what, Viktor was planning to walk 30 kilometers across St. Petersburg in the snow, dragging his suitcase behind him? The idiot wasn’t even wearing boots, he had on Hermès oxfords.

      “Yakov, you were the best coach I ever had,” Viktor said, finally turning around and walking back towards him, “You always will be.”

      “If you walk away now, you can never come back!” Yakov yelled angrily – though both he and Viktor knew that that wasn’t really true.

      Viktor put his suitcase down and embraced Yakov. Leaning in, he whispered d _asvidanya_ in Yakov’s ear and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry I can’t do as you say this time.”

      Yakov bit his tongue against snapping, _you’ve never once done as I’ve said_! Instead, he wrenched himself out of Viktor’s grasp. “You’re a fool, Vitya. Go get in the fucking car.”

      “Thanks, Yakov!” Viktor chirped. “Oh, we need to swing by Mila’s, she has Makkachin for me.”

      The daft boy had apparently been wise enough not to leave Makkachin at his own apartment for retrieving – probably knowing that Yakov would’ve barricaded him inside his own apartment and not let him out until he was sure this idiotic desire to go to Japan had passed. Swearing under his breath, Yakov agreed. There was no point anymore in fighting with Viktor. If he wanted to throw his career away all over again, so be it.

      Yakov couldn’t let the argument fade away, though. In a tone straddling pleading and patronizing, he ran once more through the list of problems Viktor could run into: first, this Katsuki could turn him away – maybe there was a reason he hadn’t contacted Viktor all these months. Then there was the whole issue of sponsors – what were they to think, with their golden boy leaving the country so abruptly? And on _that_ note, what would the family think of all this? Yakov had worked hard to maintain his career in figure skating as well as his position in the obshchak of the Tambov bratva. He’d vouched for Viktor, saved Viktor’s ass more than a few times, and even gotten Viktor his own position in the obshchak. This was nothing to sneeze at – didn’t Viktor understand the possible repercussions?

      But Viktor waved away his coach’s worries. “They’ll understand, they’ll all see, don’t worry, Yakov.”

      Yakov groaned and shook his head. Viktor could be stumbling into his death, all because he was thinking with his dick and not the brain Yakov had worked hard to keep intact. “And _Vor_? What do you think he’ll say when he sees you parading around Japan with that fat skater? What happens when you stumble into a den of yakuza, hmm? Will he send aid to you?”

      Viktor squirmed in his seat, looking frustrated. “The internet says Hasetsu is just a town by the sea, there won’t be any yakuza there, Yakov. And anyway, I can handle myself.”

      Yakov rolled his eyes. “Right, you can handle yourself. Don’t you remember what happened when I left you up to your own devices last time?” from the corner of his eye, he saw Viktor’s jaw jump angrily. Good – maybe this would give way to some sense.

      “That was a decade ago.” His voice was hard and cold as the black ice scraped to the side of the road.

      “And it’s taken almost half that time to put you back together, Vitya, don’t you understand? You think just because you’re a national hero you can throw yourself away and be reborn endlessly, and it doesn’t work like that. Luck _always_ runs out!”

      The anger was leaving Viktor’s face, though, and he smiled after a moment. “Maybe this is going to be the chance for me to live a life where I don’t _have_ to be reborn,” he said, a little wistfully. “Keep faith, Yakov.”

 

      When Yakov dropped Viktor and Makkachin off at the airport an hour later, Viktor gave him one of his trademark smiles. “ _You_ should come visit Japan, Yakov!”

      “And walk right into a bunch of those Fukuoka yakuza types? They’re ruthless, Vitya, you daft boy. No, I’ll be safer _here_ explaining your airheaded adventure to Vor. The Boyeviks at the Kremlin are going to lose their minds.”

      Viktor’s smile didn’t even waver. He gave Yakov another kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the airport to catch a red-eye from St. Petersburg to Japan.

 

⋆

 

      Minako burst through the front entrance of Yu-topia yelling, covered in snow. “Yuuri! Why aren’t you answering your cell?”

      Hiroko had been walking past with an armload of freshly folded jinbei. “What’s wrong?” she asked, a serene smile on her face.

      “Everything’s wrong,” Minako said dramatically, wiping snow out of her hair before rushing to Hiroko’s side. “There’s a rumor that _Viktor Nikiforov_ is going to be Yuuri’s coach.”

      “Oh, Vicchan’s here already,” Hiroko said.

      She led Minako to one of the private dining rooms, where Yuuri sat near the door and, on the other side of the table, Viktor Nikiforov himself was sprawled on the floor, fast asleep. A massive brown poodle was curled against his stomach, like a little spoon to a big spoon.

      “Yuuri,” Minako gasped, apparently horrified, “ _why_ is Viktor sleeping in one of the inn’s robes?”

      Yuuri turned to his old ballet instructor, wide-eyed. “Well, he soaked in the hot springs and then had dinner and then he… fell asleep.”

      Minako sighed. “This is already big news in Russia. Apparently he’s taking this season off to consider his next move.” She turned an accusatory glare on Yuuri. “And they’re saying that when he saw the video of you skating his routine, he was struck with inspiration that led to him deciding to be your coach.”

 _What the hell_ – “What?” Yuuri hissed.

      “He came here because he chose you, Yuuri-kun. _You_ brought him here!”

      There was a sharp burst of something in Yuuri’s chest – it was like pain, but so much sweeter, so much more intense than anything he knew. He clutched at his chest, right over his koi with its own dull ache, watching Makkachin nuzzle into the crook of Viktor’s neck.

“This is incredible,” Minako was continuing. Yuuri really wasn’t paying attention, though – he only had eyes for Viktor.

 

      When Viktor sneezed and awoke twenty minutes later, Yuuri and Minako both flinched. She’d migrated over to sit on a cushion next to Yuuri when it became obvious that he wasn’t listening to a thing she said. Viktor sat up, pulling Makkachin close against his chest.

      “Oh, he’s awake,” Yuuri said wonderingly in an undertone to Minako. She did her best not to roll her eyes.

      “я голоден,” Viktor said softly, evidently to himself. When Yuuri didn’t reply, he looked over the shoulder his jinbei was slipping off of and simply said, “Hungry…”

      Minako narrowed her eyes at Yuuri. “He’s still hungry? I thought you said he ate.”

      Yuuri was flailing a little. “Uh, what would you like to eat?”

      Viktor hummed, looking away for a moment. When he met Yuuri’s eyes again, gone was the sleepy expression and back was the seductive smirk Yuuri recognized from press photos, never mind that his hair was tousled from sleep and wavy from humidity. “As your coach, I’d like to know what your favorite food is, Yuuri.”

 _What?_ Yuuri looked back at him, blushing. _Viktor Nikiforov is really asking me what my favorite food is? How is this real?_ He started to explain katsudon, but gave up when the curious, tilted jaw look Viktor was giving him kept making him lose his concentration. Thankfully, it was much easier to simply as Hiroko if she’d make up a deluxe bowl for their guest.

      Viktor reacted like he’d been given a fantastic gift when the tray of food was set in front of him. Yuuri found himself wondering if he’d ever seen this heart-shaped smile, the wide-eyed delight on Viktor’s face.

      “Wow, amazing!” he crowed.

      Hiroko sat to his right, smiling proudly. “Our specialty, the pork cutlet bowl, extra-large size!”

      Viktor picked up chopsticks – he held them properly, to Yuuri’s surprise – and took a bite of a piece of breaded pork. Immediately he was singing praises to Hiroko, mouth full and all. “This is too good for words – is this what _God_ eats?”

      Yuuri was blushing on behalf of his mother, who had practically danced off to the kitchen. “I’m glad you like it,” he said shyly.

      Minako leaned across the table like she was a kind of confidant. “Yuuri-kun gains weight easily,” she began, and Yuuri felt the color drain from his face. Minako smirked, continuing (albeit fondly), “he was only allowed to eat katsudon after winning a competition. Right, Yuuri?”

      Viktor was looking at Yuuri with those big aquamarine eyes. “Oh? So have you eaten this lately?”

 _There’s rice on his face. There’s_ rice _stuck to Viktor’s face_ , Yuuri thought. It took him a second to realize he’d been asked a question. “Hmm? Yeah, yes, I eat it often.”

      Viktor tilted his head to the side. Half his face was still covered in rice. “Why? You haven’t won anything lately.”

      Yuuri’s stomach dropped. Viktor didn’t seem to notice the shock on Yuuri’s face, or he didn’t care.

      “You’re overweight, too – if you’re looking like a pig, lessons are kind of meaningless. You need to get down to your weight before last year’s Grand Prix Final, at least, before we can start training – or I can’t coach you.” Viktor finally seemed to realize there was rice on his face, and used a forefinger to carry a grain to his lips. Yuuri, for a moment, both hated Viktor for being so blunt about how out of shape Yuuri was and hated him for being so casually erotic. (Really, though, Yuuri didn’t hate Viktor – he didn’t really think that was possible.)

      Viktor smiled. “Until then, no more katsudon. Okay, little piggy?”

      Yuuri nodded and stood, putting a hand to his head. _I feel like I should be really offended_ , he thought. Mari came in then and saved Yuuri from saying something stupid, like offering to give up katsudon forever if it meant Viktor would stay.

      “Hey,” she said, never one for greetings. “All this luggage is in the way.” She gestured over her shoulder to the hallway, which was indeed lined with cardboard CedEx boxes and a couple suitcases.

      Viktor waved his own greeting, but didn’t even try to charm Mari with one of his celebrity smiles. Maybe he knew it wouldn’t faze her. “Can you take it to the room I’ll be staying in?”

      Minako and Yuuri exchanged a glance. “Staying?” _Does this beautiful Russian really intend on staying here in my home? Where the ninkyō dantai – the one I’m_ associated _with – like to spend their leisure time?_

 

      Yuuri wound up being the one to carry most of the boxes.

      “Wow! What a classic, tiny room!” Viktor said, looking around with a smile. He didn’t sound mocking, though his word choice was blunt. Makkachin panted contentedly at his feet. “Is there a sofa?”

      Yuuri found himself smiling, really only because there was Viktor, smiling at _him_. “No. I’m sorry it’s so small – we only had an empty banquet room available.”

      “It’s good,” Viktor nodding, the tone apparently his attempt at being soothing. “You look anxious. Don’t worry about the coaching fee, you can pay after you achieve success. I’ll bill you then.” It was a _joke_ , Viktor winked and smiled, but Yuuri looked back at him wide-eyed.

      “Uh… thanks.” Yuuri finally managed. He looked past Viktor to where Makkachin was trying to get into one of the boxes.

      “Yuuri.” Viktor knelt on one knee, more or less level to where Yuuri still sat after putting the last box down. “Tell me everything about you.” He reached out and put a hand under Yuuri’s chin, tilted his face up towards him, and Yuuri could swear his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. “What kind of rink do you skate at? What’s in this city?”

      Yuuri made an inarticulate noise, trying to keep his eyes to drifting to the tattoos on Viktor’s chest as the jinbei slid open even more.

      Viktor continued, “Is there a girl you like?” running the hand not on Yuuri’s face down his arm to take his hand. “Before we start practicing, let’s build some trust in our relationship.”

 _Is he gonna kiss me? Is Viktor fucking Nikiforov going to kiss me?_ Yuuri thought, with Viktor leaning in so close. The situation finally clicked and before Yuuri really registered what he was doing, he’d scooted back out of the room and into the hall, red-faced.

      “What? Why are you running away?” the surprise on Viktor’s face was almost comical.

      “Uh, no reason –” Yuuri choked out, his voice cracking embarrassingly. _How am I ever going to be around him to train when he makes my heart race like this?_ “I’ve – I have to go. Sorry.”

 

      Viktor came to Yuuri’s room that night, Makkachin on his heels. “Yuuri,” he said, knocking loudly, “let’s sleep together. As your _coach_ , there’s still so much more I want to learn about you.”

      Yuuri was shirtless, letting his koi breathe free of wrappings before getting ready for bed, but that wasn’t the main reason he shouted “No!” so vehemently. The walls were, of course, still covered in posters of Viktor’s face. Halfway afraid that Viktor would come inside anyway, Yuuri made a mad dash around the room, plucking the posters he could reach most easily from the wall. Outside his door, Viktor kept up a mournful chorus of Yuuri’s name, all wrapped in his silky Russian accent. Makkachin whined – that was really what the most convincing argument was. Yuuri looked down at the posters in his hands of Viktor in various poses on ice, hardly flushed, a glittering ice god with his golden skates and platinum hair. _We’ve barely spoken because I’ve put him on such a high pedestal for so long. And now he’s right here in front of me – and I just don’t know what to do._

      Outside Yuuri’s door, Viktor had fallen silent. Yuuri knew he was still there; he could see the faint shadow under the door, could hear the soft thumping of Makkachin’s wagging tail.

      “Viktor? Not tonight. I’m sorry, I just –” Yuuri broke off his statement, unsure of what he was even trying to say. He crossed the room, leaned against the door on the other side of this gorgeous ice god he could barely even look at, one who apparently wanted to get to know Yuuri as thoroughly as he could. The very thought made Yuuri’s heart race somewhat uncomfortably. “Good-night, Viktor.” It was just a whisper, but he hoped Viktor heard it.

      After a few minutes, the shadow receded and Yuuri heard Makkachin and Viktor walk back down the hall.

 

      Viktor cried. He didn’t cry often, not when he had eyes on him in everything he did, but here in the hastily converted banquet room he was alone, and it was safe to cry (quietly, into Makkachin’s soft fur). It had been such a long day, with leaving Russia and navigating airports and transportation systems to finally wind up in this tiny town in Kyushu. All day, he’d been masking his emotions.

      In spite of all the beauty and wonder surrounding Viktor, he felt like he’d stepped into a bad dream. First, Yuuri had reacted with something awfully similar to horror when he saw Viktor there in the hot springs. He seemed not to know why Viktor was there at all, and was acting like they’d never met. Every advance Viktor tried, each casual touch, every question he asked – Yuuri shied away like a scared animal, looked at Viktor like he was a statue come to life.

      It gradually dawned on Viktor that Yuuri must’ve blacked out from drinking at the banquet – otherwise, how would he have ever pole-danced so boldly and then returned quietly to the life of a student, content to be invisible? With a touch of ego, Viktor mentally added, and _how else would he have forgotten me?_ Viktor didn’t think Yuuri should ever be invisible, not to anyone. But here he was, obviously anxious, having let his figure go – for what, for living a life of leisure in his small hometown?

      No, Viktor wouldn’t abide by that. He’d watched as many videos of Yuuri skating as he could find between the time he left St. Petersburg and arrived in Hasetsu. Yuuri was dripping in athletic ability, even if he did apparently overthink himself into ruts. Viktor could even see little twists in Yuuri’s programs inspired by his own – it was flattering, the notion that this beautiful man actually looked up to Viktor in some way, enough that his style was influenced.

      But it hurt, oh, it hurt. Maybe Yakov had been right. Maybe this would be the undoing of all Viktor had worked to achieve. Maybe he had made a mistake, flying across the continent and finding an overweight skater who’d given up on himself rather than the warm, lithe, bold man he’d met at the banquet. And here Viktor had always thought that pain was being sent away, or being forced abruptly into sobriety. No, pain was being rejected by someone you’d built up in your mind as a kind of enigma when you’d expected to be received with open arms.

 

      Yuuri lay in bed awake long after he’d turned out the light and told himself he was going to sleep. His mind had been spinning – _Viktor, Viktor, Viktor_. It was like with each beat of his heart, his body whispered Viktor’s name. The events of the day had been surreal, starting with looking out his window to see the cherry blossoms covered in snow. Finally, he’d come to a realization: _my heart’s pounding because of how happy I am._

 

⋆

 

      Viktor was having Yuuri run to the rink. That wasn’t really the issue; Yuuri was no stranger to jogging to Hasetsu Ice Castle, and he’d even done so the night that now infamous video had been filmed of him skating Viktor’s routine. Now, though, Yuuri was being expected to keep up with Viktor, who rode a bike borrowed from Minako, enough to shout directions. Viktor wasn’t cycling idly, either. Of course, he’d also had Yuuri go through a cardio routine before they even left the onsen. Apparently, Viktor was dead serious about getting Yuuri back in shape.

      When Yuuri staggered up to the doors of Ice Castle, Makkachin was already snoozing in a patch of sun by the bike stand. Viktor, at least, had waited for Yuuri to go inside the rink. Yuuri was horribly out of breath, far past any hope of disguising the fact.

      “Hi!” Viktor said, sauntering through the sliding doors. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov.”

 _As if he needs any introduction_ , Yuuri thought darkly.

      “From now on I’ll be Yuuri’s coach.”

      As was expected, the Nishigori family proceeded to have a small, collective moment of surprise and mild panic. “Huh? Viktor’s _really_ going to coach our Yuuri?” the triplets were asking their parents, little voices brimming with excitement.

      Viktor gave them his dazzling smile. “Where can I put on my skates?”

 

      He kept his word – Viktor wouldn’t let Yuuri on the ice. “Lose the weight, little piggy,” he said just loud enough for Yuuri to hear, trailing his fingers under Yuuri’s chin as he passed.

      Nishigori noticed and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. They all crowded along the boards to watch the living legend skate. Yuuko cried when Viktor’s instrumental training mix of _Stammi Vicino_ crackled through the old stereo system. She tried to act like she was composed, but Yuuri watched her wiping tears from her cheeks. When Viktor landed a quad flip, quite casually, she shrieked like she’d seen god.

      One of the triplets reassured her, “It’s okay, Mom, I’ve got this,” and pulled out a neat little DSLR camera. Her sisters had a phone (with a custom Viktor Nikiforov case, Yuuri noticed with some amusement) and a little camcorder.

      “I’ve got the video.”

      “Can I upload this?”

      Yuuri rushed over, shaking his head. “It’s not for the public, you skating otaku trio!” somehow it was much easier to interact with the triplets when they were all busy being star-struck by the same person. Yuuri wandered back over to stand by Nishigori, stumbling a little because he couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off Viktor.

      “So Viktor Nikiforov is really going to be your coach?” Nishigori asked, looking impressed.

      Yuuri didn’t think he’d smiled so much in one day in months. “Yeah,” he said, more than a little wonderingly. “He said he’d like to use Ice Castle as our home rink for now. Is that okay?”

      Nishigori smiled. “Yeah, okay! I’ll check with the higher-ups, but it should be fine.” Yuuri knew that the ninkyō dantai had a vested interest in the ice rink, courtesy of Yuuri’s skating career and the recognition it had garnered for the small town. There was really no doubt that they’d have no problem with Viktor Nikiforov skating there, bringing in even more publicity. The pat on the back Nishigori was giving Yuuri quickly became a headlock. “Viktor teaching you _himself_ … it’s like a dream come true, huh?”

 _That’s exactly what it is_ , Yuuri wanted to say. Instead, he just smiled a little wider. When Yuuri had been twelve – before Toshiya met Yamamoto, before Yuuri got Vicchan, before he’d really even started to skate in earnest – Viktor, at sixteen, was already a world record holder, number one in the junior singles division. For years, Yuuri had imitated Viktor’s skating, trying to catch up to him. And now, Viktor was there in Hasetsu because a video of _Yuuri_ had inspired him? _How did_ I _inspire Viktor Nikiforov?_ Viktor, who had so many secrets – the tattoos on his body, the way he looked at Yuuri and seemed to see someone else. Viktor, who had flown halfway across the world to a tiny town no one knew about, putting his own career on hold with a vow to make Yuuri a champion.

      As if in explanation as to why he was alone on the ice, Viktor came out of a turn and looked at the Nishigoris. “The little piggy can’t enter the rink until he drops some body fat,” he said with a smirk.

 _And there’s that – why’s he so determined to make me win?_ Yuuri wondered.

 

      He went to see Minako that night, after dinner. She always gave good counsel to Yuuri when he needed to talk but didn’t know who to turn to – and even better, in this case, she’d keep him moving to get the weight off faster.

      “Maybe he just wanted an excuse to take a break,” she said when Yuuri explained his earlier ruminations. Even to Yuuri’s ears, though, Minako didn’t quite sound convinced.

      “Please don’t say that,” Yuuri sighed, rubbing his shoulder where the koi tattoo was particularly achy. “That’s what I think, too, but…”

      Minako watched him. “You decided to keep skating, didn’t you?”

      Yuuri looked up, startled, from where he’d been resting on the barre. “What?”

      “You need to take advantage of Viktor!” Minako declared. “Okay, enough talk, let’s get you slimmed down!”

      Yuuri sighed again. “Okay.”

      “And after,” Minako said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “you can show me the work Nobunaga did on your chest.”

      “Minako-sensei!” Yuuri hissed, “You’re not even supposed to know about it!”

      Minako rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Yuuri-kun, you know you’ve never been able to keep anything from me, even when you were a little boy. Anyway, you showed me the sujibori, it’s only fair I get to see what colors Nobunaga gave you!”

      Yuuri didn’t see any point in arguing. He’d been dancing at Minako’s studio since he was very young, well before he started skating. First it had been Mari who was in ballet classes, but Hiroko didn’t make her continue them when it became clear that they weren’t what she wanted to do. Instead, Yuuri had asked to learn ballet, and they’d all been more than happy to oblige him.

      It was Minako who had suggested Yuuri try figure-skating. Even when he did start skating, Yuuri spent more time at Minako’s studio than he did at home. She was right; he’d never been able to hide anything from her. Though she wasn’t involved with the ninkyō dantai the way the Katsukis were, she knew almost as much as they did. She knew when Yuuri had wanted to quit skating as a teenager, she knew how heartbroken he was when Viktor came back from his absence without the waist-length platinum hair, she knew when Yamamoto had asked Yuuri to become involved in the ninkyō dantai’s activities before moving to Detroit. Minako knew just about everything. Just as she’d always supported Yuuri, always cheered him on, she liked to make herself involved even where she wasn’t needed.

 

      Viktor got the wrong idea. He knew where Yuuri was slipping off to after dinner (after asking him about fifty times and Yuuri finally telling him) and even caught him returning a few times, late at night. One morning while they were in one of Yu-topia’s gardens – Yuuri doing cardio and Viktor apparently enjoying the view, Makkachin dozing at his feet – he asked quite abruptly, “Do you have feelings for Minako?”

      Yuuri nearly fell off the bench. “What? _No_ , oh my god. She’s older than my _mom_!”

      Viktor looked away for a heartbeat. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

 _Oh, this again_. Viktor had brought up relationships a few times before, and Yuuri never knew quite how to respond. “No…”

      There was something almost fevered in Viktor’s eyes. “Any ex-girlfriends?”

      “N-no comment.” How miserable would Yuuri look in Viktor’s eyes if he admitted that he’d never _really_ dated anyone? First, growing up he’d always pushed himself so much into skating and dancing that he never really felt the need to look for a girlfriend; then, there was his involvement with the ninkyō dantai that complicated things; last, how did you quantify random hookups in college? No, he’d never had a _girlfriend_ , probably never would, but that didn’t mean Yuuri never had _people_.

      Viktor shrugged. “Okay, let’s talk about me. My first girlfriend was, hmmm –”

      “Stop it!” Yuuri said, loud enough that Viktor stopped abruptly and pushed his lips out in a pout. They fell into silence, both sat on the same bench, close but so far from each other. Viktor had been in Hasetsu for nearly a month, now, and Yuuri was still walking on eggshells around him, afraid one misstep would break the dream into reality and Viktor would disappear back to Russia.

      Maybe Makkachin sensed the unease between the men: his owner, who he went everywhere with, and the quiet man he’d taken an immediate liking to, even sleeping in Yuuri’s bed some nights. So naturally, the dog sat on his haunches and barked until both Viktor and Yuuri turned to look at him over their shoulders. That’s when Viktor caught sight of the Hasetsu Castle.

      “What’s that over there, Yuuri?” he asked.

      Yuuri glanced over at the big, old structure. “Oh, that’s Hasetsu Castle,” when Viktor still looked a little confused, Yuuri made his face a mask of seriousness and said, “it’s a façade: inside is a ninja house.”

      Viktor’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “ _Really_? Ninjas?”

      Yuuri didn’t think it was very coach-like to grab your student by the hand and run in the direction of a castle, abandoning the workout you swore was mandatory – but it amused him all the same. Makkachin followed them, barking happily, his tongue lolling.

      When they got to the square, Yuuri took Viktor’s phone. “I’ll take a picture of you and Makka in front of the castle, alright?”

      “Ah, Yuuri, you’re so thoughtful!” Viktor smiled that genuine, heart-shaped grin and crouched next to Makkachin, flashing a peace sign to the camera. Yuuri smiled, too, at the boyish excitement on Viktor’s face. He took several pictures before handing the phone back to Viktor.

      Behind him, Yuuri could hear a familiar voice say, “Wow, who’s that good-looking foreigner?” Yuuri looked over his shoulder to see Nobunaga walking past with a parcel of groceries, smiling knowingly. Yuuri just smiled back – Nobunaga knew exactly who the foreigner was, knew what it meant to have him in Hasetsu with Yuuri.

      “Yuuri, what do you think? ‘Hasetsu Castle’, hashtag ‘ninja’?” Viktor was asking, tugging on Yuuri’s sleeve for his full attention. Yuuri almost laughed at the serious expression on Viktor’s face.

      “Yeah, that’s good,” he said, looking over Viktor’s shoulder at the phone. While the photo uploaded, they were stuck looking at a picture Christophe Giacometti had uploaded of himself.

      “Ah,” Yuuri said under his breath, “Chris looks good. Where is he there, some island?”

      Viktor was pouting – Yuuri couldn’t see his face, but could hear it in his voice. “Probably. His _boyfriend_ likes to take him on vacations.” If Yuuri didn’t know better, he’d think Viktor sounded jealous.

 

      By that evening, Yuuri was ready to turn his phone off again. Notifications were pouring in across all the social media platforms Phichit had insisted on setting up for him. Apparently Viktor hadn’t disclosed his exact whereabouts since arriving in Hasetsu; with the Instagram upload of the picture Yuuri took in front of Hasetsu Castle, it was as if he’d placed a tracking beacon in the middle of his forehead. There were already articles: _What’s Viktor Nikiforov Doing in Hasetsu, Kyushu?_ ; _So It’s True Nikiforov Will Coach Katsuki Yuuri_ ; _Viktor Nikiforov – Finding Inspiration In Japan_.

      The next morning, Hiroko opened the front door of the onsen to collect the mail and found a herd of reporters and fans who’d come to catch a glimpse of the famous Russian skater who’d been living there for the past month. Mari, who was with her, had the first instinct to panic. Hiroko, though, looked beside herself, smiling widely. “It’s been so long since we’ve had this many customers!”

      And after the herd of reporters came someone else – Yamamoto, with Fukuyama behind him.

 

      “Yuuri,” Hiroko said, knocking on his door. “You have company.” It was only about eight o’clock, but Yuuri was never good at waking up early. Viktor didn’t expect him to, either; he’d walk around town while Yuuri slept, and when he awoke they’d go straight to training.

      On the other side of the door, she could hear Yuuri grumbling sleepily. With a sigh, she tried again, “Yuuri, Fukuyama-san and Yamamoto-san are here, they’d like to speak with you.”

      There was a loud _thump_ , like Yuuri might’ve fallen out of bed, and he flung the door open a moment later. “What?”

      Hiroko smiled up at her son. “Yes, Yuuri, did you turn your phone off? There’s been lots of news overnight, and Fukuyama-san and Yamamoto-san want to talk to you.”

      “What news?” Yuuri asked, turning back into his room to find something presentable to wear. Hiroko followed him into the room and shut the door, even though they were in the residential part of the inn, to ward against potential eavesdropping.

      “I think it’s something to do with a picture of Vicchan confirming he’s here in Hasetsu. Overnight many reporters and fans who saw this have travelled here to see him.”

      Oh. That definitely changed things. Yuuri pulled on a fresh button-up shirt, stepped into a pair of dark jeans (that he hadn’t tried on in months, but closed satisfyingly at the waist), and hastily ran a comb through his hair. “And Viktor?”

      “Vicchan is downstairs talking to reporters while he eats his breakfast.” Hiroko smiled, smoothing down a swath of Yuuri’s hair still tousled from sleep.

      “Yamamoto-san and Fukuyama-san?”

      “They’re waiting for you in the ninkyō dantai room. Yuuri?”

      Yuuri met his mother’s eyes for the first time. She looked calm, much calmer than he was.

      “It’s alright, Yuuri. Try to be calm. Really, everything is alright.”

      Yuuri gave Hiroko a small hug before slipping past her, down the stairs to the banquet room reserved solely for the activities of the ninkyō dantai. Yamamoto looked much the same as he had all those years ago when he and Toshiya had first met: not very tall, but impressively wide through the shoulders and chest, bald with a goatee slowly turning more salt than pepper. Fukuyama was a little younger than Yamamoto, a little taller, and had more hair. He didn’t have the same massive shoulders that Yamamoto had, but his biceps were constantly at odds with the nicely pressed shirts he wore – a fact Yuuri would bet was banked on by Fukuyama. Both men were sitting comfortably on cushions when Yuuri entered the room, sipping on tea.

      “Good morning Fukuyama-san, Yamamoto-san,” Yuuri said, bowing deeply.

      “Good morning, Yuuri-kun,” Yamamoto said, voice light though his face was impassive.

      “Have a seat, Yuuri-kun. Would you like tea?”

      “No, Fukuyama-san, thank you. Actually…”

      Hiroko knocked at the door then, and came in with a large mug of coffee. She handed it to Yuuri and smiled at the yakuza leaders. “My Yuuri isn’t a morning person, you see, and tea won’t be enough to wake him up for the day!”

      Fukuyama smiled and Yamamoto laughed. It eased the tension Yuuri hadn’t quite been able to place in the room.

      “If you need anything, let us know,” Hiroko said before leaving the room almost as quickly as she came. As soon as she was gone, Fukuyama turned to Yuuri.

      “I hear that Viktor Nikiforov has come to Hasetsu to be your coach, Yuuri-kun.”

      Yuuri swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yes, Fukuyama-san, that’s right. He arrived abruptly about a month ago.”

      “Abruptly? You hadn’t planned this?”

      Yuuri clenched his jaw against the sudden urge to shout. He’d never dared to dream a situation like this; how in the hell would he have even gotten in contact with Viktor, how would that conversation have even gone? ‘Hi, I love you, please come rekindle my love of skating’?

      “No, I hadn’t. Apparently, Viktor saw a video of me skating one of his routines, one that was filmed and posted without my knowledge, and was so inspired he flew immediately to Hasetsu to coach me. He says that he’s going to make sure I win the next Grand Prix.”

      Yamamoto was stroking his greying goatee. “This is interesting.”

      Fukuyama looked conflicted. “Do we need to take action with the party that filmed you without your knowledge?”

      Yuuri shook his head vehemently. “No, no, but thank you, Fukuyama-san. It was the Nishigori triplets; I don’t think they had seen me skate before, and I’d gone to Ice Castle to see their mother, who is an old friend of mine. The triplets are only six but very involved with the fan groups in figure skating. I don’t know why they’d be interested in me, then –“

      Fukuyama was shaking his head even as Yamamoto was interrupting, “Yuuri-kun, you sell yourself short. You’re still the only internationally recognized skater from Japan, and that’s no small honor. And how was it Toshiya-san introduced you to us all those years ago? He said you’d be the next world champion skater – and now, Yuuri-kun, it looks like Viktor Nikiforov is here to make that happen.”

      “You’re not mad?” Yuuri asked, looking between the shateigashira and wakagashira with surprise.

      Fukuyama was the one to laugh now. “No, Yuuri-kun, surprised but not angry. Though we will have to be careful not to expose your activities with the ninkyō dantai now, with the amount of outsiders that are here Hasetsu because Viktor is here, this will benefit us in the long run. I would venture to say that it will help the whole town – though I don’t know for how long. I doubt all these reporters will stay here all season.”

      Yuuri nodded slowly. Fukuyama had a point; he typically thought things through in a pragmatic, balanced way.

      Yamamoto nodded too, finishing his cup of tea. “And this is good for you, too, Yuuri-kun. When you first came home, I understand that you were unsure whether you’d continue skating or not. It seems the decision has been made for you, which – though not always ideal – seems to have benefitted us all.”

      Fukuyama had pulled out his phone and was evidently calculating something. Yuuri knew better than to ask or take offence. After a moment, he said, “What is Nikiforov charging you for his coaching fee? I know Cialdini in Detroit was agreeable to a compromise with costs because of our respective affiliations…”

      Yuuri bit his lip. “So far, we haven’t actually discussed costs, Fukuyama-san. He made a joke the first day he was here about not billing me until I win the Grand Prix, but since then it hasn’t been something that’s come up.”

      Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. “I wonder…”

      Fukuyama exchanged a glance with him, but neither said anything more. Yuuri could tell that he was going to be dismissed soon to go to training; there was something else though that was gnawing away in his stomach.

      “Uh, Fukuyama-san? There’s one more thing.”

      Fukuyama looked at Yuuri over the tops of his glasses. “Oh?”

      “Viktor is – he’s tattooed.”

      For a moment, Fukuyama didn’t seem to understand. “Many people have tattoos, Yuuri-kun; the three of us here, for instance, are tattooed. I don’t understand your concern.”

      Yuuri cleared his throat, trying to decide how to explain his fears. “It’s just that I’d never seen them before, and I’ve been a fan of Viktor’s for over a decade.”

      Yamamoto started to interject with a quip about how just because Yuuri hadn’t noticed tattoos in his years of drooling over skating otaku magazines didn’t mean there was anything amiss. He stopped, though, at the wrinkle that had appeared between Fukuyama’s brows.

      “And?”

      “Well, on one hand, it wouldn’t be something unheard of to keep tattoos covered up in a professional sense. But… Viktor’s tattoos… in America, I met many different kinds of people, and saw many different kinds of tattoos. Whenever anyone saw a hint of my sujibori, they’d start some kind of discussion about tattoos with me – Americans are like that. Almost every young American I knew had some kind of tattoo.”

      “And your point, Yuuri-kun?”

      Yuuri flinched at the edge in Fukuyama’s voice. “I haven’t looked closely at them, but I think Viktor’s tattoos are done in the style of Russian criminals, of the mob there.”

      Yamamoto and Fukuyama were silent, considering. Fukuyama spoke first. “And you think that the reason you’ve never seen the tattoos is because their style is associated with criminality?”

      “That’s right, Fukuyama-san,”

      “Has Nikiforov done anything that would imply that he has associations with a criminal organization?”

      Yuuri almost smiled. It was an odd thing to picture. “Well, no. He’s rather loud and flamboyant, and can be a little foolish and idealistic. Not traits I’d typically associate with someone in a crime syndicate.”

      “And has he seen your tattoos, Yuuri-kun? Did he say anything?” Yamamoto asked.

      “No, Yamamoto-san. I’ve been avoiding situations where that would happen.”

      Yamamoto chuckled, glancing at Fukuyama. “Your family is the owner of a hot springs, Yuuri-kun, how have you managed that?’

      Yuuri was blushing. “It hasn’t been easy, Yamamoto-san.”

      Fukuyama took a sip of his tea. “Well see if you can’t find out more then, Yuuri-kun. He may become suspicious if you continue to avoid him, though. I don’t think there’s any harm in showing your tattoos if he himself is tattooed. And if he is involved with some kind of syndicate, we won’t have to worry about his discretion in the matter of concealing our activities. For the moment, I am not concerned.”

      It was a clear dismissal. Yuuri bowed deeply. “Thank you, Fukuyama-san, thank you, Yamamoto-san. I appreciate your counsel greatly.”

      Yamamoto smiled – he was always much easier with smiles than the more serious Fukuyama. “Skate well, Yuuri-kun.”

 

      Viktor had left Yu-topia before Yuuri was out of his meeting. There was a note stuck to his bedroom door that read, ‘ _do your cardio!!! I’ll see you at the rink_ ❤❤’. Doing his best to ignore the flutter in his chest, Yuuri changed into his workout gear and did the cardio routine he’d been sticking to before jogging to the rink. Lately, he’d been splitting his workouts between home and the rink in the mornings, lifting weights in the room annexed to the locker room at Ice Castle while Viktor skated, and then dancing for a few hours at Minako’s in the evenings. It seemed to be working, and Yuuri only had a few pounds to go until he was back to the weight he’d competed in the GPF with.

 

      Yuuri had hit his goal weight within the week. Elated, he texted Viktor, who had left Yu-topia before Yuuri in an effort to keep the gaggle of reporters still in Hasetsu from harassing him.

 **Me 9:42 am** : Viktor, I’m back to my GPF weight

 **Viktor Nikiforov 9:43 am:** :0 !!!! bring your skates!!!!

      And Yuuri _ran_.

 

               

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Yakov and Minako are very different but have similar interactions with their respective skaters... ✨  
> I'm overwhelmed by how sweet the feedback was for the first chapter! I hope I'm able to live up to your expectations with the ones to follow. If you want to contact me more directly or see what notes on this fic I post, check out my tumblr, [peachy-chulanont](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) !  
> If you want to make your own post about this fic, I track the tag '#btsats"  
> Again, thank you so so so much for reading, this fic has been my baby and every kudos, bookmark, and comment genuinely lights up my day. ❤️
> 
> TERMINOLOGY [which is explained to the best of my knowledge]:  
> obshchak - "security group", part of the "two spies" which are directly under the boss in hierarchy. His job is to make sure the organization keeps running and to keep the peace throughout the organization and with other groups, as well as to pay the right people off.  
> Vor - a word meaning 'forward' used to refer to the pakhan, or leader, of a bratva group. Compare to American or Sicilian Mafia "godfather"  
> boyevik - also a bratok. Compare to American or Sicilian Mafia 'soldier'. Boyeviks are particularly in charge of recruitment and paying tribute to Vor through the Brigadier in charge of them. Make up the main 'strike force' of a bratva or brigade.  
> shateigashira - a local boss, governs a regional gang. "2nd lieutenant"  
> wakagashira - second in the chain of command for a yakuza group; with a fuku-honbucho, governs regional gangs. "1st lieutenant"


	3. The Russian Punk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri is back to his competition weight, so he'll finally be allowed on the ice. There's a twist, though - the Russian Punk has arrived in Hasetsu, and suddenly Yuuri has to deal with more than just the prospect of his coach possibly being involved in a crime syndicate... But Yuuri isn't the only one noticing indications of a crime syndicate...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My child Yuri Plisetsky has arrived!!!! Writing him is always something I love to do, so I hope you enjoy!  
>  Just a side note, I start working in more of Viktor's complicated past in this chapter, and that includes mentions of drug use. Nothing is explicit, but if that is something you're sensitive to, please be warned. If you'd like me to explain the drug use etc before you read, send me an ask off-anon on my [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) and I'd be more than happy to talk with you.  
>  While you're reading, you can check out the short playlists for [Yuuri](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/katsuki-yuuri-btsats) and [Viktor](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/viktor-nikiforov-btsats)!

      He could see the mob of reporters before he even made it up the hill to the Ice Castle. He groaned inwardly – hopefully there weren’t any actually inside. The last thing he needed was some kind of video of him falling on his ass spread around the world, questioning his skating ability and Viktor’s judgement. Yuuri already did enough of questioning those things for everyone else.

      It was getting kind of old, for Yuuri at least, to round every other corner and come face to face with a flock of nosy people wanting to know every detail of his life with Viktor. He tried not to complain, though; for the most part they were polite enough to him, and Fukuyama and Yamamoto had been right in that their arrival had caused a small boom in the local economy. Even so, Yuuri wanted things to return to that month of so-called normalcy; he wanted Viktor to himself again.

      There was some sort of kerfuffle by the doors, but Yuuri didn’t pay it any attention. He was going to _skate_ with _Viktor_ ; any kind of outside distraction that would keep the reporters from holding him back even a minute was welcome. The last thing he expected was to be bodily shoved through the automatic doors at Ice Castle and knocked into the front counter.

      And then someone was putting their shoe on his head, leaning just enough to hurt but not leave damage, and growling, “This is all _your_ fault! Apologize.”

      Yuuri apologized without thinking, if anything to get the dude’s foot off his face. _Why the hell am I apologizing, though? Who is this guy and why’s he so pissed?_ He looked up, though, and saw that the owner of the foot was none other than the Russian Punk, Yuri Plisetsky.

      “You’re a pig,” the young Russian continued, grinding the toe of his sneaker just a little more into Yuuri’s forehead.

      “Hey,” Yuuri hissed, “stop that, it hurts.”

      The kid finally let Yuuri up with a final jab and another sneer of “Pig!” He was dressed ostensibly in faux leather and leopard print and wouldn’t meet Yuuri’s eyes.

      “He _promised_. He said he’d choreograph a program for me _first_. And you? What’s he done for you?” his Russian accent was thicker than Viktor’s, distorted differently with what must’ve been something of the region he was from.

      Yuuri got to his feet. “Well, he haven’t really talked about programs or anything yet.”

      “Huh? You made him take an entire year off, and for what?” Yuri Plisetsky stomped his foot menacingly. “You’ve just been screwing him this whole time? Like having him as coach isn’t enough?”

      Heat rose to Yuuri’s cheeks, and he took a step back from the kid.

      “As if the guy who’d cry in the bathroom after losing could change a thing, even with Viktor as coach,” Yuri continued, sneering up at Yuuri.

      Yuuri was taken aback, but only for a minute. He recognized the fear masquerading as bravado. The kid hadn’t done his homework, either. _I won the qualifiers leading up to the Grand Prix Final, and I’m the only Japanese men’s skater certified by the ISU. And on top of it all, Viktor_ chose _me. This kid is totally underestimating me._

      “Stop smirking, fatso!” Yuri snapped, his own cheeks pinking.

      Yuuri gave the kid the smile he reserved for rude guests at the onsen. “You know, I don’t really understand the whole thing, myself. Why don’t you go ask him?” _I didn’t make Viktor take the year off_ , Yuuri added silently. _He decided himself. He made the choice to come to Japan, and it was to coach me because my skating inspires him._

      The kid was quietly seething, Yuuri could tell, but followed Yuuri all the same through the glass doors to the rink itself. There wasn’t music playing, but Viktor was gliding across the ice like the scratch of his blades was all he needed. And in a way, he was right – Viktor could skate a program in dead silence and still bring people to tears.

      Yuri gave a small gasp of surprise, apparently forgetting his vitriol towards Yuuri. “I _know_ that program. It’s part of what he was composing for next season.”

      Yuuri made a small sound of surprise. He hadn’t really paid attention to the exact components Viktor had been skating; it was enough to watch the graceful curves of his body as he spun around the rink.

      The Russian Yuri continued, “He’d started putting things together for next season, but he was really torn. Surprising the audience has always been his top priority, and lately he’d held the whole world in his hands. But now, no matter what he pulls out of his ass, no one’s surprised anymore. And Viktor knows that better than anyone.”

      On ice, Viktor landed a salchow with his eyes closed, his face a mask of serene concentration.

      “If you don’t have any inspiration left, you’re as good as dead.” Yuri said darkly.

      Yuuri watched Viktor cut across the ice like it was a part of him. It didn’t seem like he was lacking inspiration… but a part of Yuuri’s mind was replaying what Minako had said to him the first night Viktor was in Hasetsu: _they’re saying that when he saw the video of you skating his routine, he was struck with inspiration._ Yuuri shivered, but it wasn’t just from the cold air coming off the ice.

      “If he’s taking this season off, I wonder if he’ll just let me use his program. I know I can surprise people more than that old geezer can.” Yuri said, the arrogance of an accomplished teenager dripping from his words. “But I’ll need his help if I’m going to make my senior debut and win the Grand Prix Final.”

      “ _Win_?” Yuuri repeated, surprised. The question sounded more like a sneer, and he would’ve reflexively apologized if Yuri hadn’t decided then to lean over the boards and shout at Viktor.

      “Oi! You look like you’re in good form!”

      Viktor turned, the pensive face he’d been wearing melting away. “Ah, Yuri, you’re here. I’m surprised Yakov let you come.”

 _Did Viktor know that this kid was coming?_ Yuuri wondered, shivering again. It was irritating, and even more than that, it made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. _I thought I was what Viktor wanted_.

      “What is it you want?” Viktor continued, smiling. _So maybe this is a surprise to him, after all._ Next to Yuuri, the Russian kid audibly growled. Yuuri edged a little away from him, lest the kid decide to knock him down and curb-stomp him.

       “Judging from that face, I’ve forgotten some promise I must have made,” Viktor chuckled, apparently amused by rather than wary of the red color Yuri was turning.

 

      Little Yuri was so upset that he was shaking, refusing to look at Viktor, who’d come off the ice to talk properly with them. Viktor laughed again when Yuri finished explaining, in angrily clipped words, that Viktor had promised him a couple years prior to choreograph Yuri’s senior debut.

      “Yeah, I forgot. But you know I’m a forgetful person!”

      Yuri growled again. “Yes, I know that too well. But a promise is a promise!” he finally looked up, throwing an arm in front of Yuuri’s chest as if to hold him back (Yuuri wasn’t going anywhere to begin with, his eyes having never left Viktor). “You _will_ choreograph my new program, Viktor! Come, we’re going back to Russia!”

      Yuuri’s heart sank, and he knew it showed on his face when he met Viktor’s eyes. Viktor himself looked shocked, but quickly turned away, apparently considering Yuri’s demand. They were all silent for a moment, and Yuuri thought that perhaps his heartbeat was audible, the aching beat whispering _Viktor, Viktor, Viktor_ like it did so often these days.

      “Alright!” Viktor said after what seemed like an eternity, holding up his finger like he had something important to say (which, Yuuri reasoned, he did). “I’ve decided. Tomorrow I’ll compose a short program for each of you using the music I’ve selected for my own short program.”

      “What? The same choreography?” Yuri demanded to know, pointing at Yuuri.

      “Both with the same music?” Yuuri asked, only slightly more composed than the Russian Yuri.

      Viktor shrugged, unbothered. “No, the piece has several arrangements. I’ve been trying to decide which to use for myself. I’ll put together different programs for each of you, of course.”

      Inspiration seemed to strike him then. “I’ll reveal the programs in a week! And you two can compete to see who can surprise the audience more.”

      “Wait a minute!” Yuuri started, waving his hands. “I don’t want to be punished for losing –”

      “And Viktor will do whatever the winner says!” Yuri interrupted loudly, looking smug. “If those are the terms, I’m in!”

      “Great, I love this kind of thing!” Viktor said, looking as excited as he sounded. Yuuri was still trying to backpedal the situation, but no one was listening.

      “Wait just a minute!” came a chorus behind Viktor. They looked around him to see the Nishigori triplets standing there, chests puffed out proudly like they were older than six and ready to take on the world.

      “Will you let us organize the event?” one of them – Axel, Yuuri thought – asked. She clenched her fists by her side like she was already grabbing hold of it. “’A face-off between Katsuki Yuuri of Japan and Yuri Plisetsky of Russia!’ let’s throw…”

      “A big party!” finished Lutz and Loop. Viktor cheered and clapped his hands.

      “Ah, this will be so fun!” he said, grinning widely. Yuuri tried not to bury his face in his hands.

 

      Viktor had disappeared into the office to talk shop with the Nishigoris and – Yuuri gulped – Yamamoto, who was one of the owners of the rink. Yuuri skated for a little bit while Viktor was busy, but didn’t even attempt any jumps. His thoughts here so scattered, he was sure that he’d flub even the simplest of combinations.

      By the time Viktor, Yuuri, Makkachin, and Yuri started walking back to Yu-topia, there were already announcements going out. The show was dubbed ‘Hot Springs on Ice’, something that Yuuri found a combination of endearing and nerve-wracking. After all, Yu-topia was the only surviving onsen in Hasetsu, a town that used to be quite full of hot springs and inns.

      Viktor wasn’t riding the bike like he usually did, instead walking it alongside them with one steady hand to guide it. he and Yuuri walked side by side, Yuri several paces behind them with his suitcase and Makkachin. It felt intimate, but not unwelcome, to walk so close through the dusk. Every few paces, their hands would brush – Yuuri's first instinct had been to flinch away, but Viktor didn’t seem to mind, so Yuuri forced himself to relax, too. It was nice.

      When they were almost at Yu-topia’s front gate, Yuri still a little ways behind them, Viktor touched Yuuri’s hand deliberately. “Yuuri?” he asked, sounding oddly unsure of himself.

      Yuuri flexed his fingers gently in Viktor’s grip, checking that he wasn’t imagining things, and met Viktor’s eyes in a wordless response. Neither let go of each other’s hands, but it was a delicate contact, as if each were afraid the other was fragile and flighty as a bird.

      Viktor took a deep breath before saying, “Today you met the goal weight I set for you. You had to lose the extra weight to perform better as a skater. But as a person you didn’t look _bad_ , you weren’t unattractive with extra weight.”

      Yuuri’s brain short-circuited, and he stammered out a mess of sounds that even he couldn’t decipher. _Did – did Viktor just call me attractive?_ A crease appeared between Viktor’s brows, and he looked a little pained.

      “Uh,” he said, licking his lips as if that would help the right words pass them, “I don’t know, maybe I’m saying the wrong thing? Sometimes things are lost from Russian to English.”

      Yuuri nodded slowly; this was true, he’d quickly learned that the same was applicable to Japanese after moving to America.

      Viktor looked away then. “I mean to say you look good now too. You _always_ look good.”

      And with that, he gently pulled his fingertips from where Yuuri still loosely held them and walked away with the bike, probably to stow it in the shed behind Yu-topia. Yuuri didn’t have much time to process the whole thing, though, because Yuri Plisetsky was stomping up to him, scowling.

      “Ugh, what a hovel,” he said, obviously meaning Yu-topia.

      Yuuri rolled his eyes and beckoned Yuri inside.

 

      They’d barely gotten their shoes off and settled into chairs in Viktor’s room (which he’d steadily furnished with things shipped over from his apartment in Russia and things hastily ordered online), Makkachin going between sitting at Viktor and Yuuri’s feet and sniffing Yuri’s suitcase dutifully, when Yuri crossed his arms and loudly asked, “Where’s my room?”

      “What?” Yuuri asked, thinking he must’ve misheard. The kid didn’t really think –

      “Where’s the room I’m staying in? You’re even dumber than you look if you think I’m going to let you have Viktor’s time all to yourself. It wouldn’t be a fair match, then!”

      “So you’re staying _here_?” Yuuri asked, rubbing his face, just as Viktor said, “Ah, Yuri, you sound worried.”

      “Yes, I’m staying here! Alright?” Yuri snapped, ignoring Viktor.

      Yuuri gave the kid his rude-guest smile. He could play at being snarky better than just about anyone, after all. “Well, it’s not like you care what I think.”

      Viktor hummed and leaned forward, his eyes lingering on Yuuri’s butt before smiling at Yuri, “And the hot spring is great,”

      Yuri shoved past them both into the storage room that was technically a large closet where Viktor had stowed the original furniture of his room. “Gross! I can’t take a _bath_ with other _people_! I’m going to sleep!”

      Yuuri and Viktor exchanged an amused glance, and Makkachin thumped his tail loudly. It was only a moment before they all heard the obvious growl of Yuri’s stomach and he slammed the sliding door back open.

      “Give me food!” he demanded, looking at Yuuri. “And a bath!”

      Yuuri, thankfully, didn’t laugh at Yuri changing his mind so abruptly. With a smile that was less fake and more genuine, he showed Yuri to the public part of the onsen. There was a niggling fear that Yuri was part of the Russian mob, just as Yuuri thought Viktor might be, but there were no tattoos visible on him. It made him breathe a sigh of relief, in spite of himself. _Of_ course _Yuri isn’t a mob member, he’s like fifteen for fuck’s sake_ , Yuuri scolded himself.

      After Yuri had soaked for a decent amount of time and showered off in the showers annexed to the onsen’s changing room, they brought him into one of the smaller dining rooms to eat. Hiroko was more than happy to produce another large bowl of katsudon for Yuri (and a bowl of rice noodles and steamed vegetables for Yuuri).

      Yuri’s first reaction to the katsudon was to swear loudly in Russian and shovel it rapidly into his mouth with a fork. Viktor laughed.

      “The pork cutlet is good, isn’t it?” he smiled, but only briefly. To Yuuri he seemed deflated – but how could he even go about asking what was wrong? And certainly not in front of his mom and Yuri.

      Mari opened the door then, not coming in all the way and only addressing her brother. “You have _another_ visitor, Yuuri? There’s luggage blocking the hall again.”

      Unable to understand Japanese, Yuri’s first reaction was to bristle and turn over his shoulder to scowl at Mari. Mari, who Yuuri thought would pull a nasty face in return, instead stumbled back, looking shocked.

      “Oh my god, he looks just like my idol, the blond Takao!”

      Hiroko laughed. “His name is also ‘Yuri’,” she said, amused.

      “Ah, no, that’s too confusing,” Mari said. She switched to English to point at Yuri and say, “From now on, we’ll call you ‘Yurio’!”

      “What?” Yuri snapped, looking between everyone. Viktor and Yuuri exchanged a glance and nearly broke into laughter of their own. The incredulity on little, emotional Yuri’s face was quite funny.

      “Alright, where is Yurio staying, then, Yuuri?” Mari asked.

      “Upstairs in –”

      “The storage room?” Mari interrupted, her voice a cigarette-roughened squawk. “Oh, _no_ , I’ve gotta clean that up!” she just about ran out of the room, only to stick her head back in a moment later. “Yuuri, come on, you’ve gotta help me.”

      Yuuri sighed and got to his feet. Just as he stepped through the door, he heard Viktor saying, “Good for you, Yurio! You’ve got a new fan!”

      “That’s not my name!” Yuri all but shouted. Yuuri looked over his shoulder to see Yuri brandishing his fork like he might stab Viktor with it, continuing (probably insulting Viktor) in Russian. Viktor just laughed loudly, honestly, and responded in kind. Unbidden, and ache flared in Yuuri’s chest. It was silly, he knew, to be jealous of something like the familiarity Yuri and Viktor shared – they were rink mates, after all, both long term students of Yakov. Doing his best not to let the ache in his heart show in his face, Yuuri trudged up the stairs. _I see it, it’s clear: Yurio has more potential than I do_.

      Instead of going to help Mari, Yuuri went to his room and grabbed a track jacket and his backpack. Mari saw Yuuri dash back down the hall and called after him, but he didn’t stop.

 _This Yuri is much more confident than me, saying he’ll win the Grand Prix in his first run as a senior,_ Yuuri thought as he ran through the dark. _And more than that, he’s comfortable with Viktor. I’m afraid he’s more comfortable than I’ll ever be. And compared to me, he’s much more…_

 

      “Where’s Yuuri?” Viktor asked, looking up as Mari walked back into the small dining room to collect empty dishes. Yuri, exhausted from his day of travel and wandering alone through an unfamiliar town, was asleep, slumped over the low table.

      Mari gave Viktor a look that was almost pitying. “Oh, he left a little while ago. Didn’t even help me clean Yurio’s room.”

      Viktor looked concerned, but Mari only shrugged. “At a time like this, he’s either at Minako-san’s place or Ice Castle. He’s always been this way.”

 

      “Huh? Yuuri?” Minako asked, leaning on the bar of the Kachu Snack Bar. “No, he’s not here. By ‘my place’ Mari meant my ballet studio. When Yuuri gets anxious, he always wants to move around, to practice. He calls me and I usually go with him. And Ice Castle lets him skate whenever he wants, if he’s not booked in already.”

      Viktor accepted the glass of sake Minako poured him and frowned, considering her words.

      “Yuuri was able to become a great skater because he always had a place to go and practice alone when he got anxious. He’s no prodigy in dance or skating, but he’s been gifted with free time to practice and people who will gladly accommodate him.”

      Minako didn’t bother mentioning the influence of the yakuza in this; there was already something Viktor was thinking, she could practically see his brain trying to find explanations for it all. Sooner than later, Yuuri would have to come clean – but only when Viktor was ready to see the truth, unclouded by whatever preconceived notions he had concerning Yuuri.

 

      When Viktor got to the Ice Castle, there was Yuuri, skating compulsory figures with his earbuds in. The Nishigoris met Viktor by the boards, where they were already watching.

      “He’s always come here by himself to practice,” Nishigori explained. None of them looked away from Yuuri, who looked younger on the ice, eyes downcast and face appearing rounder without his glasses.

      “It always made me think that he truly loved skating,” Yuuko said, and Viktor was reminded that she had been Yuuri’s rink mate for nearly twenty years. “He didn’t even play with his friends.”

      Nishigori guffawed, but it was humorless. “Not that he had many friends. Skating aside, he’s not very good at putting himself out there.”

      Viktor tapped his lower lip with his index finger. In his mind, the image of Yuuri on a pole, stripping and laughing with Christophe, was sharply juxtaposed with the quiet, reserved man he saw through the eyes of everyone who _seemed_ to know Yuuri best.

      “I don’t want this to be the end for Yuuri, for his skating career,” Nishigori said softly.

      “Me, neither,” Yuuko said, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “You know, he actually really hates losing. He’s such a perfectionist, and really puts a lot of pressure on himself to be perfect.” She looked over at Viktor, who still had his hand on his face, watching Yuuri. “Viktor, I hope you’ll bring out a side in Yuuri-kun that even we haven’t seen yet.”

      Viktor closed his eyes for a moment and murmured, “So we need a magic spell to turn the little piggy into a prince.”

      “What?” Yuuko and Nishigori asked together.

      Viktor looked at them sideways. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Thank you. I feel like I know Yuuri a little better now.”

      He turned to leave, Makkachin happily bounding after him, leaving Yuuko and Nishigori to wonder how much of himself Yuuri had even revealed to Viktor so far.

 

      The next day, Yuri was introduced to the morning routine of jogging to the rink. The cardio aspect had been reduced, so now all Yuuri really had to do was roll out of bed, down a cup of coffee, and not insult anyone by snapping at them out of tiredness. Viktor seemed his cheerful self, even when Makkachin sat next to Yuuri all through breakfast instead of him. When they were on their way to Ice Castle, Viktor greeted everyone they passed (who greeted him back, as had become customary for the locals. “You say hi, too, Yurio,” Viktor instructed, but Yuri only rolled his eyes, grumbling that his name wasn’t ‘Yurio’), but there was something just-off about Viktor in Yuuri’s eyes. He couldn’t quite place it.

      Yuuri and Yuri laced up their skates in silence. _So Viktor will finally start coaching me today,_ Yuuri thought. _Whether this is my last season or not rides on this. I’ll never win if I wimp out and let the Russian Punk walk all over me out there!_ He stood and yanked at the zipper to his jacket, feeling bold. He was going to go get on the ice and show Viktor how serious he was about living up to his expectations of him.

      Viktor had Yuri and Yuuri meet him at the far side of the rink where he’d set up an ancient-looking stereo. “First, I’ll have you two listen to the music.” He clicked the remote in his hand and music spilled through the speakers: a soft, haunting melody sung by a soprano accompanied by some kind of harp.

      “This piece comes in two arrangements,” Viktor explained, “each with different themes. ‘On Love: Eros and Agape’ is its name. Have either of you thought about love?” it was a question directed to both students, but Viktor only had eyes for Yuuri.

      “No…” Yuuri began. Viktor raised his eyebrows, but this surely wasn’t news to him – after all, he was constantly asking Yuuri about his past love life.

      “Alright, well what do you feel when you listen to this music?”

      Yuuri could answer that, at least. “It’s very clear and innocent, like someone who doesn’t know what love is yet.” He might’ve said more, but Yuri interrupted.

      “I don’t like this piece. This innocence crap makes me want to puke.”

      Viktor seemed to suppress a laugh, and Yuuri didn’t blame him. Yuri was only fifteen – what did he think he knew of life? Whatever he had experienced, there was so much more undiscovered.

      “Okay,” Viktor said, punching a button to change the track. This arrangement was much more upbeat right off the bat. It had almost a flamenco influence, with violins and clapping flourishes added.

      Yuuri leaned his weight back, letting the music flow through him. “It’s like a completely different song.”

      Yuri had his hands on his hips. “Victor! I want this one.” As if to cement his choice, he looked to Yuuri and scowled.

      Viktor smiled at them. “The first piece is ‘On Love: Agape’. Its theme is unconditional love. This one is ‘On Love: Eros’, with the theme being sexual love.” Both Yuris nodded. “I’ll have you two skate to these opposing themes. And this is how I’m assigning them:”

      Viktor paused, ever one for a dramatic flair, and pointed at Yuuri, his face breaking into a grin, obviously pleased with himself before even speaking. “Yuuri, you’ll skate to ‘On Love: Eros’! And Yurio,” he pointed then at the rapidly pinking Russian, “you will skate to ‘On Love: Agape’!”

      “ _What_?” Yuuri asked, putting his hands on his cheeks. Did Viktor really expect him to embody sexual love?

      Yuri was yelling, getting in Viktor’s face. “Switch them! You assigned them _wrong_ , old man! This piece isn’t me at all!”

      Viktor looked smug. “You have to do the opposite of what people expect,” he said, “how else are you supposed to surprise them? You know, you are both more ordinary and mediocre than you think. It’s important for you to become more self-aware. I’m surprised that you think you can choose your own image. From the audience’s perspective, you’re just a kitten and a piglet.”

      He pointed first at Yuri, then at Yuuri, where his gaze lingered. “If you aren’t up to my standards by next week, I won’t choreograph either of your programs.”

      It felt like being kicked in the stomach to Yuuri. Or like that one time Phichit had gotten him to pole dance, drunk, when he hadn’t been to many classes and subsequently fell right on his face. The air was knocked out of him.

      “Both of you are my fans, so I’m sure you’ll manage,” Viktor finished with a wink. Yuuri didn’t know what to say.

      Sounding as deflated as Yuuri felt, Yuri said, “Fine. I’ll skate to ‘Agape’. But my senior debut depends on it! You better give me a program that will let me win.”

      For a moment, Viktor looked cold as the ice they stood on. “It’s up to you whether you win or lose,” he said, “If I skated the program, I’d win for sure.”

      It was a challenge. Yuri kicked ice up at Viktor, enraged. “If I win this little competition, you’re coming back to Russia – and you’ll be _my_ coach! That’s what I want.”

      Viktor narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he said, his voice even. Yuri grinned smugly.

      And then Viktor turned to Yuuri. “Yuuri? What do you want from me if you win?”

      Yuuri felt numb. Even though Viktor had been living with him for a month, the prospect of losing him in a week hurt like the prospect of losing a limb. How could he explain that to Viktor when he couldn’t even puzzle out the implications to himself? He’d looked up to Viktor since he was a child, dreamed for almost half his life of skating on the same ice as him. And now Viktor wanted to know what Yuuri _wanted_ from him? What was the most casual way to say ‘for you to never take your eyes off of me’? Hell, Viktor could be the nastiest assassin in the Russian mob and Yuuri thought he might just lie down and accept his death. He knew next to nothing about who Viktor really was, but never wanted to leave his side. _And it’s only been a_ month _and I already feel this strongly_ , part of him lamented.

      “I… I want to go back to the inn and eat katsudon with you, Viktor.” Yuuri found himself saying. Both Viktor and Yuri snapped their heads around to study Yuuri in surprise. Yuuri lifted his chin. “I want to keep winning, and I want to keep eating katsudon with you. So I’ll skate to ‘Eros’! And I’ll give it all the eros I’ve got.”

      Viktor’s mouth slowly pulled into a smile, close-lipped but spreading all the way to his eyes. “Great,” he said emphatically. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear!”

 

⋆

 

      True to his word, Viktor had both programs choreographed by the next morning. Yuuri was handed the remote for the stereo with a wink.

      “First, Yurio’s piece, ‘On Love: Agape’.” Viktor announced, taking a starting pose in the middle of the ice. At Viktor’s nod, Yuuri pressed play on the remote and Yuri leaned over the boards, studying Viktor’s movements intently. Viktor’s movements were ethereal and languid in their grace; the step work he’d choreographed was reminiscent of his junior programs that Yuuri knew so well. Viktor hadn’t held back at all with the demanding movements of the program, and Yuuri wondered how Yuri, a less experienced skater, would be able to handle the program.

      Viktor came out of the end pose casually, like he hadn’t just skated the bones of a demanding short program. Hand on his hip, he turned to Yuri and Yuuri and said, “I was thinking something like that. What do you think?”

      Yuri didn’t look too amused. “Yeah, I think I’ve got it.”

      Yuuri was shocked – how could the kid have the program memorized having only skated it once? He wanted to ask but was distracted by a single person’s applause at the other end of the rink. It was Yuuko.

      “That was amazing,” she called, eyes wide with wonder.

      Yuri grunted, giving her a side-eye. “Who’s that chick?”

      Yuuri tried not to take offense on Yuuko’s behalf at Yuri’s tone. “This is Yuuko-san, she’s one of the staff here.”

      “Sorry for interrupting your practice,” Yuuko said, leaning around Yuuri to look at Yuri, who was still scowling. “It was so impressive, I couldn’t help myself.”

      Yuri’s face softened a little at that, but only until Viktor skated back to the middle of the ice and called, “Alright, Yuuri, it’s your turn.”

      Yuuri leaned forward on the boards like Yuri had been. This was a program Viktor had choreographed for him alone. He was ready for it. The music began to play, and Viktor began to dance. When he came out of the first sequence, he sent a smirk and sharp nod Yuuri’s way, and Yuuko murmured that she needed to sit down because she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

      Somewhere behind him, Yuri was worrying over Yuuko, who had lain down on the rink floor. “Are you sick or something?” he was asking.

      Yuuri did not turn to check on his friend. He couldn’t look away from the sharp, suggestive movements of Viktor’s hips, the intricate step work. _Goddamnit, he’s so hot_ , Yuuri thought, feeling his face heat up just watching Viktor. _This is – this has so much eros I think he could make me, a man, pregnant. Holy shit. Wait… how the hell am I going to be able to skate this?_

      And then Viktor had stopped in front of Yuuri on the ice, chest heaving a little from exertion, one side of his shirt hiked up a little over his hip. From the way he was looking expectantly at Yuuri, he’d just asked a question. Yuuri stumbled over himself, unsure of what to say but knowing _something_ had to be said.

      “Well, what did you think, Yuuri?” Viktor asked, smiling.

 _I think I need to take a cold shower_. “Uh, it was… very ‘eros’!”

      Viktor chuckled. “Right? Now, as far as the jump components go, what quads can you land?”

      Yuuri tried not to sigh. “The toe loop, and… I can land the salchow in practice, but never in competition.” He glanced up briefly to the considering but otherwise impassive look on Viktor’s face and hurried to add, “But I think I can if I try!”

      Viktor shrugged. “That’s alright, you’ll just work on the basics for now. I’m not going to teach you anything you can’t do, I’ll teach Yurio first. How many times have you messed up in competition? You have the skill to win, so why can’t you make it happen?” his tone wasn’t challenging or rude, but blankly analytical. Yuuri didn’t know how to respond without embarrassing himself.

      “Um, it’s probably… because I lack confidence…”

      “Right,” Viktor said simply. “My job is to make you feel confident in yourself.” And then he was slipping closer, so close that their chests bumped with each breath. Viktor took Yuuri by the chin, running his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip as he tilted his face up towards the light.

      “No one in the world knows your true eros, Yuuri,” he murmured, staring intently into Yuuri’s eyes. “It may be an alluring side that you yourself are unaware of,” he continued, still stroking Yuuri’s lower lip with his thumb. “I hope you can show it to me soon.”

      Yuuri had no clue what might’ve happened if Yuri didn’t lean over the boards shouting, “Oi, Viktor! I thought you said you were teaching me first!”

      Viktor’s hand lingered on Yuuri’s face, slid down his chest before falling away even as Viktor turned, calling, “Yes, that’s right,” to Yuri.

      And then his hand was just resting once again on Yuuri’s chest, fingers pressing intently. “So Yuuri? Think long and hard about what ‘eros’ means to you, okay?”

      He skated one way, and Yuuri staggered the other, heart racing. _What ‘eros’ means to me? What the hell could that be?_

      It was hard to concentrate on coaching Yuri – who was a great kid, but it was such a hindrance to have him in Japan, couldn’t he tell that Viktor was trying to seduce the man who’d seduced him the year before? All Viktor wanted was Yuuri to fall back in his arms, smiling so wide and true. How did he get back to that night, how could he make Yuuri remember? And underneath the surface, Viktor was seething. It wasn’t that he was angry at Yuuri so much that he was angry at himself for expecting a different outcome.

      He’d just thought that maybe the whole ‘sexual love’ thing, the music, the choreography – Viktor had really put a lot of work into Yuuri’s choreography, going so far as to have Christophe send him videos of his pole dancing shows – would spark some memory of the night of the banquet in Yuuri’s mind. These days, it was just about all Viktor could think about. And when he wanted to give up, blot out his emotions with whatever painkillers he could get his hands on and drag himself back to Russia, Yuuri was always there, looking up at Viktor with that wonder in his perfect eyes.

      So Viktor pulled himself together, took a sip of coffee instead of a tab of oxy or a drag on a cigarette, and smiled. The world had been at odds with him before, and no matter what Yakov always said, you could always put yourself back together. If there was any chance of Yuuri in Viktor’s future, he’d continue to greet each day with a smile, if only to see Yuuri smile in return.

      “What? He made you do basic training for half a day because you can’t figure out what ‘eros’ means to you?” Nishigori asked. He was in the otherwise empty locker room with Yuuri, helping him stretch out.

      “Yeah,” Yuuri sighed, coming out of the deep stretch he’d been doing with Nishigori’s help.

      Nishigori made a sound that was between a sigh and a chuckle. “You should’ve just made something up. I bet Viktor hasn’t thought much about it, either.”

      Yuuri tried not to snap. “Well Viktor’s a genius, so he can get away with that.” He stretched forward again, pressing his face against his legs. “You know, I could see a story in the program too, even though it was just part of it.”

      “Yeah?”

      “A playboy comes to a certain town and bewitches women left and right. He decides to pursue the most beautiful woman in town, but she isn’t swayed. Then, as they play the game of love, she begins to find it difficult to make the right choices. So she ends up falling for the playboy. But then he casts her aside like he’s tired of her and leaves for the next town.”

      “’Wow, so hot! Take me!’” Nishigori said in a falsetto as the seduced woman. He shook his head. “That doesn’t really sound like you, Yuuri.”

      “Right?” Yuuri said, relief washing over him. At least he wasn’t the only one at a loss with this wild program Viktor had created. Then, sullenly, he added, “I bet people will see me skate it and wish I was Viktor instead.”

      Nishigori shrugged. “I don’t know, you looked pretty sexy in the video where you skated Viktor’s routine.”

      “Well I can’t just _copy_ him,” Yuuri said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll never surpass him like that.”

      Nishigori was quiet for a moment. “Wait, you… really think you can be better than him one day?”

      Yuuri still had his hands on his face, his eyes closed, but now they snapped open. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that!”

      Nishigori got the big, sideways grin he’d worn since he was a child when he teased Yuuri. “I mean, how can someone as inexperienced in dating as you beat the hottest bachelor in the world?” he laughed.

      Yuuri was shocked into silence, but quickly joined in on Nishigori’s laughter. _Oh, if only he knew what I’m capable of_ , he thought.

 

      Later, back at Yu-topia, Yuuri reasoned with himself, _I’m a twenty-three year old man, I could totally show sexiness through my skating if I wanted to._ But then Viktor walked by on his way to the bath, and Yuuri found himself going back on his self-affirmation. _From a physical standpoint, I’m nowhere near being eros._

      Viktor, Yuuri, and Yuri ate dinner in the main dining room. Yuuri was tired of eating his steamed vegetables, tired of being on a diet when Viktor was shoveling katsudon in his mouth like there was no tomorrow. Frustrated, with not being able to eat his favorite food, with not being able to figure out his personal interpretation of ‘eros’, Yuuri put his head down on the table. _Ugh, eros, eros, what does that mean to me? It’s what causes you to lose the ability to make normal decisions. For me, what causes me to lose that ability is…_

      “I get it now!” Yuuri said, sitting up.

      Viktor stopped eating.

      “It’s katsudon! That’s what eros is to me!”

      Viktor and Yuri didn’t say a thing, and Yuuri played back what he’d just said over in his mind. _Oh, no_. “Um, sorry, it’s just –”

      “No, it’s okay, we can go with that.” Viktor said with a small, brittle-sounding laugh. There was rice stuck to his face again. “It’s… unique, and simple.”

      Next to Yuuri, Yuri whispered, “Seriously?”

      Yuuri left Yu-topia shortly after, running with Makkachin on his heels.

 

      The week was a blur of training. Viktor didn’t make fun of Yuuri’s katsudon eros; he called for Yuuri to imagine various descriptors of the dish while he skated (if he wasn’t giving brusque corrections). When they weren’t on the ice, Yuuri and Yuri were training in Ice Castle’s gym, or Yuuri was running up the steps set into sea cliffs and the Hasetsu Castle alike. He did his step work on the ground, danced in Minako’s studio – he was working harder for the Hot Springs On Ice event than he really had for the previous Grand Prix. It felt good.

      Apparently, Yuri was having trouble finding his own meaning for ‘agape’. Viktor had been sending him to a local Buddhist temple in hopes of getting the Russian Punk more disciplined, but hadn’t found the desired effect reflected in Yuri’s skating. Two days before the event, Viktor sent both the students to stand under a waterfall. Yuuri could see where this might help Yuri to feel more disciplined, but couldn’t help but feel that he was being punished for something.

      It was easily arranged, putting both Yuri and Yuuri in robes and sending them through the temple to stand under the roar of the waterfall. Yuuri had some notion that they were meant to be silent, ruminating, but Yuri kept up a string of swears, cursing Viktor’s name.

      “I’m gonna kill him.”

      “You know, he had a reason for sending you. Why’d I have to come?”

      “Who cares?” Yuri snapped, opening his eyes to scowl through the water at Yuuri. “ _Damn_ it. Why does agape even matter?”

      Yuuri didn’t have an answer for him, not one he’d want to hear, anyway, so he didn’t say anything at all. He was honestly more concerned with the white robe soaking through and exposing the colors of his irezumi piece. He hunched forward, trying to get the fabric to hang instead of cling to his chest. As this consumed him, it was a little while before he realized the lapse in Yuri’s complaining. Yuuri opened his eyes.

      “Yurio? Hey, are you alright?” Yuuri grabbed Yuri’s wrist, pulling him out of the direct fall of water. Yuri sneezed, looking dazed. Yuuri wasn’t as concerned about his tattoo showing then, he was just worried for Yuri, who didn’t seem himself. _Maybe he’s found his agape after all_ , Yuuri thought. To the teen, he said, “I think we’ve been here long enough. Let’s call it a day.”

      Yuri’s eyes stood out, two jade stones, from the washed-out paleness of his face. He nodded, didn’t even throw in an insult for Yuuri. He looked young, for a moment, and vulnerable.

      While they were changing back into their clothes, Yuri asked, “Where is that old man anyway?”

      “Viktor?” Yuuri clarified. He shrugged. “Before we came here, he asked me to watch Makkachin this evening, so I’d say he’s at Nagahama Ramen.”

      Yuri swore.

 

      Yuuri loved returning home to Makkachin barking happily and jumping up on him. Even though he hadn’t seen Vicchan in person for a few years before he died, he missed the dog terribly. Makkachin wasn’t a substitute, he was his own dog, but all the same it was good to have that kind of companion again. Hiroko greeted Yuuri and Yuri, confirming Yuuri’s suspicions that Viktor had left earlier for Nagahama Ramen. Viktor got on well with the locals with his loud, easy personality and his many tales of traveling around the world – and they had a habit of plying him with various forms of alcohol.

      It didn’t matter to Yuuri how long Viktor stayed out. For one, Yuuri was usually awake until the very early hours of the morning, and Viktor being out for the evening gave Yuuri plenty of time to spend with Makkachin. With Viktor, Makkachin was all loud canine enthusiasm. With Yuuri, Makkachin was a steady, warm comfort. He was an older dog, with Viktor getting him as a puppy fourteen years prior, but still had a genial, relaxed personality unlike some dogs who got grumpy in their senior years.

      Yuuri took the opportunity of Yuri going first to the kitchen to go instead to the private part of the onsen to soak. He hadn’t spent much time in the hot springs since being home, first because the fresh tattoo couldn’t be submerged while it healed, and then because of the risk of exposing his more illicit activities to Viktor. Yuuri leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the heat work through his sore muscles.

      “What the _fuck_?”

      Yuuri’s eyes snapped open. Yuri Plisetsky was standing across from him, mouth open in shock, eyes locked on the tattoo covering half of Yuuri’s chest. Belatedly, Yuuri was reminded of his first interaction with Viktor after he had arrived. Instead of standing though, Yuuri slipped deeper into the water.

      “I can explain!”

      Yuri’s mouth was still open, and he looked like a fish as he tried to work out something to say. “You –”

      “Yes, I do, but you can’t tell Viktor!”

      That seemed to shock Yuri. “What?”

      Yuuri knew he sounded ridiculous, pleading with a kid. “Yurio, you can’t tell Viktor, he doesn’t know I have this tattoo.”

      “How does your boyfriend not – _oh_.” Realization dawned on Yuri’s face. “Wait, why can’t I tell him? Does that mean something?” he was pointing in the general direction of Yuuri’s chest, though Yuuri was still in water up to his chin.

      “Ah! No, no, nothing like that. I just – I think I should tell him myself.”

      Yuri didn’t look like he believed a thing Yuuri was saying. “ _Why_?”

      “Uh,” Yuuri looked away, trying to slow his thoughts, to think clearly. “Uh, because the Japanese are very private about tattoos. Think, have you seen anyone else with tattoos?”

      “Well,” Yuri scrunched up his nose, “there was that guy in here playing cards with your dad.”

      Yuuri swore under his breath. The kid was right. “Yurio, _please_ don’t mention my tattoo. Out of respect for me, maybe?”

      Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Gross, I don’t _respect_ you!” but after a moment, he softened. “If you get me a katsudon bowl and don’t tell Viktor that I went off my diet, I won’t tell.”

      “Done.”

 

      Viktor stumbled in Yu-topia’s back door around one in the morning. Makkachin knew his footfalls, and had sat up from a doze next to Yuuri where they were sitting on his bed. Yuuri had his hand on Makkachin’s back, and he could feel the dog preparing to do his usual loud greeting bark.

      “Shh, Makkachin, don’t bark,” Yuuri told the old dog quite seriously, not wanting to wake his parents. Of course, from the crash of what sounded like a dropped set of keys downstairs, that was likely going to happen anyway.

      Yuuri set his laptop aside and got out of bed, Makkachin next to him, and padded softly to the top of the stairs. Looking down, he could see Viktor walking in an exaggerated way that belied how drunk he was. Instructing Makkachin to stay upstairs, Yuuri went down to meet Viktor.

      “Oh! Yuuri!” Viktor cried when he noticed Yuuri. “You came!”

      Yuuri frowned. “This is my house, Viktor. How much have you had to drink?”

      Viktor held up his hands and counted to himself in muttered Russian before giving up and saying, “I’m really not sure, actually.”

      “Alright, well let’s get you to bed.” Yuuri said, doing his best not to laugh. He’d never seen Viktor so wasted; it reminded him of the aftermath of parties back in college. _Phichit would love to see this_ , he thought.

      “Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor said, leaning heavily on Yuuri, who was surprised to see tears in Viktor’s eyes, “you’re so con-con-considerate. You’re a _beautiful_ man. Благословение,” there was softness, something Yuuri would almost call reverence, behind Viktor’s tears. He whispered, “ _Ангел_.”

      Yuuri patted Viktor’s back, flustered by the Russian Viktor was speaking to him. “Uh, I don’t know about that. Makkachin and I are the only people awake right now…”

      “Makkachin?” the tears were on Viktor’s cheeks now. His accent was thicker when he was this sponge-heavy with alcohol. “Makkachin is _here_?”

      “Yes, he’s waiting upstairs for you, come on, Viktor.”

      Viktor seemed to expect Yuuri to drag him up the stairs, because he went almost limp, crying and speaking in Russian.

      “Are you alright, Viktor?” Yuuri asked, alarmed.

      “I’m –-” _sniff_ “fine. I’ve never been so happy?”

      _Good lord, he’ll be the death of me,_ Yuuri thought. “Alright, Viktor, well if you aren’t going to walk up the stairs I guess I’ll have to carry you. Okay?”

      Viktor’s tears had abruptly stopped, and he looked at Yuuri with his blue eyes wide. He nodded, looking earnest.

      “Okay, can you get on my back?” Yuuri figured it would be less embarrassing than carrying Viktor honeymoon-style into his room. Viktor obliged though, clambering clumsily onto Yuuri’s back. As Yuuri had expected, he was heavy – made even more so from being drunk and limp. Biting back a groan, Yuuri made quick work of the stairs. Waiting at the top where he’d been told to stay was Makkachin, nervously wagging his fluffy tail.

      “Look, Viktor, here’s Makkachin,” Yuuri said as he crouched to let Viktor off his back. Viktor put his legs down but didn’t relinquish his hold on Yuuri’s shoulders, instead leaning close and sobbing, “Look how happy he is! He _loves_ you! And you took care of him all night!”

 _Well, that’s only partially true_ , Yuuri wanted to say, but then Viktor was pulling Yuuri’s face around and giving him a sound kiss right on the lips. Apparently, he thought nothing of it, straightening and stumbling down the hall to give Makkachin a huge hug, then continuing towards his room with the dog.

      Yuuri thought he himself was having a heart attack. _Did… did that actually happen? Did Viktor just kiss me? Oh my god. Oh my god. Well, he’s drunk. Maybe he thought I was someone else? Or maybe it’s a Russian thing. Do Russians kiss a lot of people? Oh my god._ His lips were buzzing like bees where Viktor’s had brushed against them. And now Viktor was looking over his shoulder at Yuuri, face expectant.

      “Yuuri?” he said, too loud for the sleeping household.

      “ _Shh_ , Viktor, what is it?” Yuuri said, forcing himself to snap out of what he was feeling.

      “Um,” Viktor began in something like a stage whisper, looking suddenly unsure. “I just remembered something. I think. Hang on, I’ve lost it again.”

      Yuuri walked over to lean against the wall opposite of Viktor, waiting patiently but looking anywhere but Viktor’s mouth. Makkachin bumped against Yuuri’s leg and demanded to be pet, so that was a welcome excuse not to look at Viktor.

      “Ah!” Viktor said suddenly, again too loud. “It was something I noticed before I left here to go to Nagahama Ramen. Have you been to Nagahama Ramen before, Yuuri? It’s really good, we should go there together –”

      “Viktor,” Yuuri said gently, giving up and looking up into Viktor’s face “what was it you noticed?”

      Viktor nodded, his eyes widening like a child. “ _Right_. There are men I’ve noticed before who frequent Yu-topia, but today I saw for the first time that they have _tattoos_ that they usually cover! And they’re scary-looking, too. Yuuri, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you might have _yakuza_ here!”

      Yuuri’s stomach dropped for the second time, but for a very different reason. _Oh, no._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... some tattoos have been sighted...  
> Let me know what you guys think! I read every comment on this story with so much gratitude; though this is only the third chapter, I have 13 in total (so far) so it's safe to say this fic is a lot of my life right now!  
> You can leave a comment down below or hit me up on my [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) where I'm more than happy to talk about just about anything!  
> Thank you again, so much, for reading this story. I can't wait to continue to share it with you!


	4. A Beautiful Katsudon Fatale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week is almost up, which means that despite his various misgivings, Yuuri has to be ready to skate against Yurio in Onsen on Ice. Costumes must be chosen, and Yuuri has to find a way to keep Viktor from returning to Russia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some Russian in this chapter! I only speak English and German, so whatever you're reading is via google translate, pls forgive any errors.  
> This chapter also contains two scenes I had in mind long before I actually started writing this, I wonder if you'll be able to pick out which they are...

      Somehow, Yuuri had convinced Viktor that he was drunk and imagining things. Surprisingly, that had worked. _Really_ , Yuuri reasoned, _it was harder convincing him to let go of my arm after I brought him a glass of water._

      Viktor hadn’t woken up early the next morning like he usually did, but Yuuri didn’t blame him. Yuri seemed to infer as much when Makkachin came downstairs for his morning walk and Viktor wasn’t with him. Yuri wasn’t perturbed, either, by the fact that Viktor wouldn’t join them on the jog to the rink. Yuuri tried not to let Viktor’s hangover bother him either; at any rate, it gave him a little more time to try and figure out how to try and explain away Viktor’s suspicions of yakuza members in Hasetsu – never mind that he was actually _right_. Yamamoto and Fukuyama seemed to be comfortable with Yuuri telling Viktor that he was indeed a member of a crime syndicate, but Yuuri was still hesitant. How could he not be, when he thought Viktor could be in a crime syndicate, too?

 

      Both Yuris sat in the locker room for several minutes after they’d done their stretches and laced on their skates. Viktor hadn’t paraded through the glass doors yet, and they were somewhat at a loss of what to do.

      Yuuri cleared his throat. “So Viktor still isn’t here…”

      “They said he was drinking until dawn,” Yuri grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and standing, “what a _dumbass_.”

      Yuuri watched the teen begin to walk away for a few paces before an idea came to him. “Oh, Yurio?” he called.

      Yuri stopped immediately. “What?” he asked over his shoulder, sounding inconvenienced but his tone lacking the vitriol he had initially used with Yuuri.

      Yuuri clasped his hands in front of his face and bowed into them, a formal, respectful request. “Please teach me how to land a quad salchow. Please.”

      For a moment, there was only silence. But then Yuuri raised his head a little to see the Russian Punk nodding.

      When Viktor finally did arrive, it was to see Yuuri bodily hit the ice.

      “You suck!” Yuri snapped, looking personally insulted by Yuuri’s incompetence. “Alright, Katsudon, watch me do it again.”

      “Sorry I’m late,” Viktor called, unaware of what had been taking place. Yuuri looked at him in surprise. Viktor’s usually straightened and styled hair was tousled and wavy, standing up a little in the back, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Huh? What were you two practicing just now?” he asked, walking closer.

      Neither Yuuri nor Yuri answered; instead, they skated in opposite directions of each other, pretending nothing had happened. If either of them had looked, they would’ve seen Viktor’s tired face slip into a content smile.

 

      Yuuri came off the ice for Yuri to go through his skate in full. Viktor watched Yuri closely; even Yuuri could see there was something different about the kid today. “Looks like Yurio found his agape. I wonder if he’s ready for the next stage…” Viktor said, loud enough for Yuuri to hear. _Next stage? Does that mean there’s a next stage for me, too, after I finish the eros of a katsudon bowl?_

      He skated after Yuri. It was obvious, to Yuuri at least, that his program was lacking next to Yuri’s agape. Even though he’d made progress imagining his eros as katsudon, it wasn’t right. _I still lack what would serve as the backbone this program needs_ , he thought. Viktor didn’t tell him anything Yuuri didn’t already know, and that was almost more frustrating than a mediocre skate.

 

      That night, Minako asked the innocent question of what they’d be wearing for the competition, to which Yuri and Yuuri exchanged respective blank and panicked glances. _Oh fuck_ , Yuuri thought. How could he have forgotten? But at least Yuri had apparently forgotten to bring something, too.

      Viktor finished a long drink of beer and smiled at all of them. “It’s all taken care of! I had all of my former costumes shipped over from Russia.”

 _He’s nothing if not thorough_.

      Upstairs, Viktor’s room was a maze of trunks and boxes. Yuuri felt his inner fanboy come roaring to life. He had posters of these very costumes all over his walls, had nearly memorized every sequin on some of them, and now he got to touch them, handle them in person. What a dream it was.

      Yuri didn’t seem to share Yuuri’s reverence of the costumes. “There’s a lot of stupid ones,” he said, holding up a teal garment from a couple years back with an unimpressed look on his face.

      Yuuri was too busy flitting between boxes, gasping loudly at each gauzy shirt or hairpiece. “Hey, you wore this at last year’s Grand Prix Final,” he called over his shoulder to the doorway where Viktor stood watching, holding up a jacket.

      Immediately, Yuri was on the offence. “Hey! Don’t you pick anything flashier than me, pig!” he snapped.

      Yuuri had already put the jacket back, though – there were panels of sheer blue across the shoulders of the accompanying shirt, and even though his tattoo would most likely be covered, he didn’t want to risk it. There were some concerns that Yuuri had. For one, he was several centimeters shorter than Viktor, and definitely wider through his hips – while Viktor had broader shoulders, his waist was a _tiny_ thing. Any costumes from the last season or so would look ridiculous on Yuuri.

      The other thing he had on his mind in regards to the costumes was that for years, the Russian team had put Viktor in all manners of lacy, mesh, and translucent costumes. They had played on his femininity and the ethereal quality he had with his waist-length platinum hair. Yuri may have found out about Yuuri’s hikae irezumi piece, but he didn’t need anyone else to catch a glimpse of it – let alone in pictures that the whole world would no doubt see.

      Viktor was silent, watching them, even when Yuuri made his way over to a box in the far corner, tucked between an ugly IKEA chair and a bust of Napoleon Bonaparte as Dionysus that Viktor had also brought over from Russia. He’d seen Yuuri discard three costumes already that Viktor had thought would’ve been perfect for him. From what Viktor could tell, each of the costumes featured some sort of sheer panel. _Is he worried about his body? I thought I’d told him before that he’s beautiful, no matter what his size is_ , Viktor thought with a frown. Maybe he’d have to pull him aside and tell him again, because Viktor’s costumes were definitely on the revealing side and he didn’t want Yuuri feeling uncomfortable.

      Across the room, Yuuri was frowning at the Cyrillic lettering on the box, but he opened it anyway and gasped even louder than he had when he saw the blue Grand Prix costume.

      “This is from the Junior World Championship!” he said excitedly, holding the costume aloft.

      Viktor narrowed his eyes. Yes, that was what he’d worn when he was all but rocketed to the forefront of figure skating news, breaking a world record and sweeping the competition. A good portion of the outfit was black mesh combined with a smaller amount of black lycra, all set with large silver gems. There was a half-skirt of black and red satin that flared like a ballerina’s tutu when it caught air in jumps and spins. Oh, the crap he’d gotten from a handful of Yakov’s associates when he debuted that costume… his fans had loved it, though.

       It would be lovely if Yuuri decided to wear the piece, but would he? This costume had been ambitious, especially with Viktor pushing his late teens. It was the last year he’d competed with long hair, the last year his coach and advisors had played a game of flattering Viktor’s feminine and masculine traits. Viktor watched as Yuuri ran his hands consideringly over the fabric, felt the costume’s weight. He held it against himself, maybe evaluating the way it would fit.

      And then Yuuri looked up at Viktor, brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I choose this one!”

 

      Yuuri couldn’t sleep. Even with Makkachin providing a comforting weight across his chest, Yuuri could feel his own heartrate accelerating as his thoughts began to spiral negatively. For a while, he’d been able to forget his concerns with the program. But now, in the dark quiet of his bedroom, all he could think about was how losing tomorrow would mean losing Viktor. The posters on his walls were almost mocking, even in the dark where he could only make out lines from the moonlight through his window and the memory of what the full pictures were. And Yuuri had even gone and chosen that costume, the one Viktor wore when he rose to fame as a world-record breaker at age sixteen. Failure in that sexy black outfit would be the worst kind of shame.

      It made sense, then, to climb out of bed and grab a sweater. Makkachin blinked at Yuuri in the dark, his sleep disturbed, but fell back asleep quickly enough when Yuuri rubbed his snout. Lying in bed, working his anxiety even more into a frenzy would definitely make tomorrow’s skate a disaster. Yuuri would go where he had always gone when he was anxious.

      Minako’s lights were out, but Yuuri rang the buzzer anyway, several times for good measure. There was a crash and a light came on – he’d successfully woken her up. As she stomped loudly to open the door, Yuuri could hear his old teacher swearing. Minako could be absolutely furious with him but it wouldn’t be any worse than the fears he was already battling with.

      “You _really_ want to practice in my studio this late at night?” she asked, looking anything but herself in glasses and a fuzzy robe.

      Yuuri had thought about what exactly he’d ask her the whole run from Yu-topia to Minako’s apartment. There was no turning back now, not when he’d woken her up and everything. “Minako-sensei, there’s something I need you to teach me.”

 

⋆

 

      Ice Castle Hasetsu was more crowded than it had been in years – or maybe ever. Even sportscasters had come out to film and interview the skaters. There were a couple hours before Yuuri and Yuri would skate, but the rink was already starting to fill up. Hisashi Morooka had gotten Yuri and Yuuri to stand in front of the boards to film a teaser for the competition. Apparently, this was even bigger in the skating world than Yuuri had realized – _no wonder Phichit has been nagging me daily for pictures of practices,_ he thought. Morooka was the same commentator who’d found Yuuri after the Grand Prix Final and told him not to retire – he was also one of the people who’d witnessed the humiliating ‘commemorative photo’ exchange between Viktor and Yuuri.

      “We’re here at Hasetsu Ice Castle, venue of the Hasetsu exhibition: Hot Springs on Ice, presented by Viktor Nikiforov. Right off the bat, we have skaters Katsuki Yuuri and Yuri Plisetsky. Both your programs were choreographed by Viktor Nikiforov, and you’ll be presenting them here today. Tell us how you feel about the upcoming competition!”

      Yuuri looked down blankly at the microphone Morooka was holding under his mouth for a moment. His mind, of course, had gone horribly blank. Finally, thinking of his family and his ninkyō dantai, he said, “Uh, it would be great if you tried the hot springs out afterwards…”

      Morooka _tsked_ and said in an undertone, “Hey, we’re not asking you to promote tourism. Promote _yourself_.”

      Yuuri never had been good at that shameless, self-promoting bravado, though.

      Yuri grabbed the microphone from Morooka and said in a very low, menacing voice, “We don’t need two Yuris. I’ll crush him.”

      “Yes, that’s it, thank you for giving us what we wanted to hear!” Morooka said, nodding. He turned to face the camera. “Last but not least, let’s hear from Viktor Nikiforov, the man responsible for this unique event, who has switched from skating to coaching quite out of the blue!”

      Viktor crowded into the shot, and Yuuri swallowed a dismayed groan. It looked like he had raided the small shop at Yu-topia, and he wore a bright yukata with a sash saying ‘Hasetsu Tourism Ambassador’. Viktor looked incredibly pleased with himself, that was for sure.

       “ _Hi-i-i!_ Hasetsu is a lovely place, you should come visit at least once!”

      Yuuri tried to get Viktor to step out of the triumphant pose he was giving the camera. “ _Viktor_ ,” he hissed, “what are you doing?”

      The smile dropped off Viktor’s face at Yuuri’s sharp tone. “Huh?”

      Yuri made a grab for the fan Viktor was holding. “Stop that! It makes today’s face-off look cheap! And you’d better be ready to evaluate our battle.”

      This close to skating for Viktor, Yuuri felt oddly bold. Pressing in as close to Viktor as he dared, he smiled up at him nervously and said, “Right, and you’ll grant the wish of whichever of us wins?”

      Viktor tapped the closed fan against his lip. “Uh… of course!”

      “You forgot, didn’t you?” Yuri growled, cheeks turning colors and making another grab for the fan.

      Viktor smiled, stepping again just out of Yuri’s reach.

 

      Yuri was set to skate first. Yuuko came into the locker room to collect him and subsequently went into a kind of fit when she saw that Yuri was wearing one of Viktor’s more notorious costumes, a white one-piece with huge panels of mesh and sequins with a feather collar. Yuuri only watched from his side of the room, afraid of taking his earbuds out and hearing the roar of the crowd, the blare of the announcers over the crackly speakers. Hoping he’d spoken loud enough for Yuri to hear him, he whispered ‘good luck’ and got back to doing his warm up stretches. Viktor lingered in the locker room a minute after Yuuko led Yuri out to the rink, and for a moment Yuuri thought he might stay with him. But then Viktor seemed to remember that he was the judge of this whole competition, and he left, pursing his lips.

      Yuuri was left alone in the locker room – he felt Viktor’s absence clear as day. While he didn’t necessarily _like_ being alone, this gave him a chance to run through some of the moves Minako had taught him the night before. Viktor had no clue as to what Yuuri had up his sleeve – if all went according to plan, Yuuri would surprise Viktor today just as Viktor always surprised his own audiences.

      The curiosity got the better of him, though, and Yuuri abandoned the review of his footwork in favor of standing in the doorway of the locker room, pulling the heavy curtain back just in time to watch Yuri take the ice. Morooka was reading off Yuri’s accomplishments thus far as a figure skater, and Yuuri couldn’t help but be reminded of Viktor’s own records. There was a bloom of self-doubt in Yuuri’s stomach – he’d always dreamed of really competing against Viktor, but not like this, not in the form of some crazy-intense child prodigy who had many of the same laurels as Russia’s hero.

      And then the music was starting, and Yuri was skating clear, neat lines that were as concise and sweet as the melody playing. A hush had fallen over the rink. Yuuri felt his eyes stretch wide, watching the performance. _Everyone is drawn in by his skating_ , he thought. _I can tell this is a different Yurio than I’ve seen in practice – it all changed when we were at the waterfall. He’s like an ever-evolving monster with each movement, and no one can look away._

      Morooka’s voice came through the music, “We’re approaching the quads Yakov Feltsman forbid Plisetsky from doing in competition. And these are ambitiously placed in the second half of the performance…”

      Yuuri couldn’t focus on Morooka’s narration. He’d seen Yuri land these jumps a hundred times, easy. He knew what was coming. It took his breath away all the same, though. Yuri achieved a lot of air on his quad salchow, spun through the following triple toe loop like it was an afterthought, something effortless. Yuuri was beginning to regret watching Yuri’s skate, after all. Anxiety was building rapidly in his chest – this kid was _fifteen_ , and he was landing quads he’d never before competed with as if they were as insubstantial as doubles.

      But something was changing in Yuri’s performance. With only a few maneuvers to the finale, he was gaining speed, sinking low to the ice like a tiger on the prowl. There was aggression there, sharply juxtaposed to the music or even his skating just minutes prior. Yuuri looked over to the side of the rink where Viktor stood, unmistakable with his platinum hair. Viktor was leaning on the boards, his hands pressed together under his nose, considering. Yuuri felt sick. Had Viktor ever looked so serious evaluating Yuuri’s skating? Or was this a different, more interested appraisal Viktor was giving Yuri?

      Yuri rubbed his face during the combination spin, as if out of frustration. While not against regulation, the movement definitely would affect presentation points, something Yuri should naturally keep from doing. Yuuri frowned. What was going on with him? Was Yuri alright? And then Yuri was in his end pose, obviously panting, and Morooka was showering praise over the loud speaker through thunderous applause. When Yuri came out of his pose, though, and swept around to skate through the gap in the boards, his face was ashen.

      Yuuri was close enough to Viktor to hear him call, “Yurio, that was the best performance I’ve seen from you! Go greet the audience.”

      By the time Yuri had finally raised his head and given the crowd a wide, triumphant grin, Yuuri had migrated over to stand at the boards near Viktor. _He’s certainly going to be among the top ranked senior skaters,_ Yuuri thought, watching Yuri skate once around the rink, posturing and posing. And then the reality of the situation returned to Yuuri like a kick in the stomach, and he leaned forward to brace himself with his hands on his knees, trying to breathe. _If I don’t win this, Viktor will go back to Russia. I’ll lose him. And I can’t – I_ can’t _. I want to win. I_ have _to win!_

      “Yuuri?” Yuuri opened his eyes to see Viktor standing in front of him, reaching for him. “It’s your turn.”

      Yuuri covered his mouth against a surprised gasp, straightening so he could look Viktor in the eye. His thoughts were starting to spiral out of control, a spinning mess of _‘I can’t do this’_ and ‘ _I’m not good enough_ ’. But Viktor was looking at him so expectantly, and Yuuri found himself wanting to reassure Viktor that he was taking this skate-off seriously, that he was going to do his best to win.

      “Uh, I – I’m going to be a super tasty katsudon bowl, so please watch me!” it was odd, being eye-to-eye with Viktor. The skates closed the height difference between them, and for once it felt something like being on the same level as Viktor. “Promise!”

      And then Yuuri was closing the difference between them, throwing his arms around Viktor’s neck and holding him close. It wasn’t something that a student would normally do, perhaps, but it felt right. Viktor looped his arms loosely around Yuuri’s waist, just a ghost of contact resting there.

      “Of course,” he said, his tone carefully even, “I love katsudon.”

      The time for Yuuri to take the ice was rapidly approaching. Reluctantly, Yuuri took his arms from around Viktor’s neck and stepped back.

      “I’ll take your jacket,” Viktor murmured. Yuuko had taken Yuri’s, but she was already in the stands with Nishigori, Minako, and the triplets. It felt almost like he was stripping for Viktor, shucking the track jacket from over the costume and handing it to Viktor, Yuuri thought a little ridiculously. _Wouldn’t that be a joke?_ They walked together to the gap in the boards, where Viktor put a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder to hold him steady while he removed his skate guards. With one last squeeze from Viktor, Yuuri took the ice.

      Morooka had been giving a long-winded introduction to Yuuri, and now the crowd erupted as Yuuri skated a small circuit. This was it. Yuuri was in his childhood rink about to skate for the privilege of having Viktor Nikiforov as coach in front of his entire hometown – and quite a few members of the yakuza he was a part of. _No big deal_ , Yuuri told himself, hoping he looked more confident than his internal monologue sounded.

      “…he’s been having trouble channeling his ‘eros’, so Katsuki-san has said that he will be thinking of his favorite dish, the pork cutlet bowl, while he skates…”

      When the music started, everything else fell away for Yuuri. All at once, he was almost giddy – now he was going to show all of Hasetsu what really had inspired him to return to skating instead of fading away into the obscurity of the ninkyō dantai. _Who am I skating for? Well, I know who._ After the first movement, Yuuri usually looked to Viktor for some sort of confirmation. Now, he did just that, but gave him a proud smirk – this was part of the role he was playing. Viktor wolf-whistled – was he playing a role, too?

      “What a seductive step sequence! It’s hard to imagine he’s imagining katsudon…”

      Yuuri wanted to laugh. He wanted to _sing_. Instead, he pursed his lips against a smile and focused on his skating, on moving the way Minako had shown him the night before. Minako had poked at Yuuri’s stuttering movements and snapped, “I thought you took pole dancing classes when you were in America. If you tried to dance like this when you were there, you would’ve been kicked out. Fix your stance, and try to find some rhythm, would you?”

      Yuuri hadn’t bothered asking when or who had told her that he was pole dancing as a means of cross-training, only sighed and did as she was telling him. She’d made a face when he first asked her to show him how to move more like a woman, but quickly understood what Yuuri needed. The program Viktor had created for Yuuri was good, but it was just slightly off – or maybe Yuuri’s approach to it had been wrong. He’d been trying to imagine himself as a playboy, and that just wasn’t him. He was more like a woman seducing the playboy instead, and needed help to be able to move his body accordingly. Yuuri already had wide-set hips and a fair amount of fat still in his thighs; he could almost pull off a womanly silhouette. By the end of the night, he was happy with the way he was performing – he was confident that he could move in an enthralling, feminine way. But would it be enough to beat Yuri’s stunning performance? Would it be enough for Viktor to stay with him?

      Spread eagle into a triple axel, Yuuri moved into the second half of the program where all the jumps were scheduled. The moment Yuuri started thinking about how his body was getting tired, though, he stepped out of his quad sal and had to touch down with one hand to stay on his feet. _Don’t panic_ , he instructed himself, _this isn’t enough to lose the battle. This isn’t enough to make me lose my charms – I’m better than any woman out there_. Quad toe loop, triple toe loop. Just a step sequence and a spin and he was done.

      Ice Castle Hasetsu was filled with cheers of ‘welcome back, Yuuri!’ and Yuuri knew he was flushed from more than just exertion. Even with touching down, he felt proud of himself – he’d skated with everything he had, done his best to seduce the audience. No matter what Viktor’s decision was, Yuuri would know that he performed well.

      Viktor was at the gap in the boards, smiling his big heart-shaped grin. “Yuuri!” he called, opening his arms for a hug, “You were the tastiest katsudon I’ve ever seen! Wonderful!”

      Yuuri stammered out, “thank you,” too shocked to even hug Viktor back.

      Viktor was already pulling away, sliding his hands down Yuuri’s arms to hold his hands. “But can I say something?” he asked, sounding serious. His face was very close to Yuuri’s, and all Yuuri could think of was the drunken kiss Viktor had so thoughtlessly given him two nights ago. It took him a second to find his words with a mouth that had gone bone-dry.

      “Uh, sure.”

      “What was with the triple axel out of the spread eagle? That was your worst attempt so far. And I know you had Yurio teach you the quad salchow in secret, but what the hell was that? Huh – Yuuri?”

      Yuuri had staggered back from Viktor, not upset but on the shaky side of overwhelmed, and maybe a shade disappointed. _Well, what can I say; he didn’t  want to kiss me after all_. 

      Viktor seemed to notice then that Yuuri was still on the ice. He smiled sheepishly and fished Yuuri’s skate guards out of his pocket. “Sorry, Yuuri. Maybe I’m a little like Yakov – but I’m proud of you.”

      Yuuri took Viktor’s hand again to help him off the ice. There were people to talk to – Viktor had to give his decision to the announcers. It wasn’t long before a carpet was rolled out onto the ice and a podium was brought out of one of Ice Castle’s back rooms. Yuuri’s friends and associates had been coming over to him in a steady stream since he’d come off the ice, telling him how surprised they were at his skating. Nobunaga, who Yuuri had been quite shocked to see out of his small apartment, patted Yuuri on the back and cryptically told him to come back by when he had the chance. Yuuko didn’t come over to see Yuuri, though, until just minutes before the results would be announced.

      “Yurio is gone,” she said in an undertone.

      At first Yuuri didn’t think he’d heard her correctly. “What do you mean?”

      Yuuko sighed. “I saw him go out the side door while you were still skating. When I caught up with him, he said he didn’t need to see the results; that he was going to go back to Russia.”

      “What?” Yuuri shook his head and reached behind him for Viktor, who was only about a foot away. “Viktor, Yuuko says Yurio is going back to Russia!”

      Viktor nodded. “He texted me a few minutes ago. It doesn’t change my decision, though, if that’s what you were concerned about.”

      “Your – what? No, I’m just worried about Yurio…” Yuuri trailed off. What was Viktor saying?

      “Well, there’s not a flight out until tomorrow morning, even with the strings Yakov can pull. So don’t worry, I’m sure he’s back at Yu-topia, pouting in the onsen.”

      In spite of himself, Yuuri smiled. It was a funny mental image, almost enough to distract his mind from the wild thoughts Viktor’s mention of his decision had sent spinning through it. Before Yuuri could spend too much time dwelling, though, the call came that they were ready for him on the ice. With Viktor at his side, Yuuri walked down the aisle of carpet to the podium, where cameras were set up and Morooka was waiting with his microphone.

      He still didn’t know how he’d placed until people were helping him up to the top level of the podium, and Morooka was saying over the speakers, “Katsuki Yuuri has won the Hot Springs on Ice event!”

      Viktor climbed up on the podium behind Yuuri, a warm weight against his back. When Morooka pointed the microphone under Yuuri’s chin and asked how Yuuri felt about the win, all Yuuri could do was stutter. But then Viktor’s arm was coming around Yuuri’s back, squeezing his arm reassuringly. 

      Yuuri took a deep breath and took the microphone from Morooka so he wouldn’t have to stoop forward at an odd angle and said, “I’m going to try and _win_ the Grand Prix Final with Viktor as my coach. Thank you for your continued support!”

 

      The interviews and promotional pieces following Yuuri’s win hadn’t taken too long; it was only early afternoon when Viktor and Yuuri arrived back at Yu-topia. Yuri hadn’t wasted any time packing. That was obvious, in part, by the odd corners of garments sticking out from his leopard-print suitcase that stood waiting in the front room. He was tapping his black-booted toe agitatedly against the floor. Hiroko was hovering around behind him, petting Makkachin’s head and looking distressed – Yuuri guessed that she wanted to ‘mother’ Yuri, smooth his hair and give him a hug, but was afraid of his prickly attitude. Yuuri didn’t blame her.

      “Hi Yurio,” he greeted, but Yuri made a show of sticking his nose in the air and looking away. Yuuri was surprised when Viktor snapped something in Russian, his voice hard. Yuuri was even more taken aback when Yuri all but snarled in response, cheeks flushed and fists clenched by his sides. Makkachin whined at the obvious aggression.

      Viktor’s voice softened. “There wasn’t bias in my decision, Yurio. I _was_ serious when I said that was the best I’ve seen you skate. But I think you know, too, that that _wasn’t_ agape.”

      “What, and the pig was _sexy_?” Yuri sneered.

      Viktor shrugged and nodded, glancing at Yuuri out of the corner of his eye as he did so. Yuuri didn’t know whether to be insulted that Yuri was still calling him a pig or flustered over Viktor admitting that he thought Yuuri had been sexy on the ice.

      Mari was coming down the stairs, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip. Her eyes went between the luggage and Yuri’s pink face. “When are you leaving us, Yurio?”

      When Yuri looked up to meet Mari’s eyes, Yuuri could see tears on his cheeks. “Tomorrow morning. It was earliest flight back to Russia.”

      Mari pursed her lips and looked over Yuri’s head to Hiroko, switching to speak in Japanese. “Do you think we can put a going-away party together for Yurio-kun tonight?”

      Hearing his name, Yuri scowled and opened his mouth like he might start swearing at Mari, but Yuuri reached out and touched his shoulder. “Yurio, I owe you a katsudon dinner, don’t I? Why don’t we take our food to the beach for a picnic, and enjoy the evening? It’s supposed to be clear tonight, so we can see the stars.”

      Yuri frowned, his jaw working as if he was silently arguing with himself. Finally, he shrugged and said in a pointedly emotionless voice, “I guess. But if I get sand in my food I swear I’ll kick your fat ass.”

      Viktor chuckled. “Not while wearing my shoes, I hope.”

 

      Hiroko was all too happy to pack katsudon into bento boxes for Yuri, Viktor, and Yuuri (with an extra serving of the sweet potato shōchū Viktor loved). Toshiya handed Viktor a bottle of sake with a wink before they left to walk to the beach, and Mari tucked a parcel into the basket Yuuri carried. Yuri complained about having to carry blankets, but quickly quieted after Viktor said something to him in a hushed voice.

      The sun was just starting to set and the beach closest to Yu-topia was empty. Though the air was cooling without the sun overhead, it wasn’t windy, and Yuuri was thankful – he had no doubt Yuri really would raise hell if he ended up with a mouthful of sand. Viktor was uncharacteristically quiet as Yuuri and Yuri spread the blankets out. After standing awkwardly out of the way, Viktor announced that he would go find driftwood to make a fire with.

       Yuri, too, wasn’t saying much, but staring out at the ocean with a sullen frown. The silence between them wasn’t really unnerving so much as tinged with melancholy for Yuuri – the Russian Punk had arrived in Hasetsu with an abrasive personality and a proclivity for explicit, offensive speech. Over the week, though, Yuuri had grown somewhat fond of Yuri. Under his sharp edges, Yuuri could see the uncertainty of adolescence in Yuri. It couldn’t have been easy, training for most of his career at the same rink as a living legend like Viktor, much less with the same coach. Yuuri shuddered to think of the pressure that must’ve put on Yuri from a young age – and he didn’t resent Viktor for it, because Viktor was more or less oblivious to the extent of impact his charms had on people.

      “Why are you staring at me, pig?”

      Yuuri jumped. He hadn’t realized it, but he was indeed staring at Yuri. The growly tone Yuri used didn’t faze Yuuri like it had a week ago, though. He smiled. “I’m really going to miss you, Yurio.”

      “Ugh, whatever,” Yuri snapped, turning back to face the ocean. Yuuri decided to give the kid the benefit of the doubt – perhaps that was just the sun reflecting on his pale cheeks and not a blush, after all.

      Viktor chuckled, appearing with an armload of dry wood for a small fire. Yuuri and Viktor set the logs up – Yuuri had had his share of lighting bonfires at college in Michigan over the last five years and knew more or less how to position the kindling to create a long-burning blaze. Viktor seemed to know at least _partially_ what he was doing, though from the amount of times his hands fumbled into Yuuri’s, it almost didn’t seem that way. When the wood finally caught (with the help of a lighter Viktor produced from his pocket), they sat back on the blankets. Yuri was still pointedly looking away from them.

      Viktor scooted closer to Yuuri until their thighs were just flush before calling, “Yurio, you’re still a kitten, but I think you’ve grown as a skater this last week.” Yuri looked over his shoulder to roll his eyes at Viktor, who laughed, “I’m serious! Yakov will thank me, I think.”

      “You’re delusional, old man.”

      Yuuri snickered at the shocked face Viktor pulled – had he been serious? “Viktor, I don’t think Yakov is going to be thanking you any time soon, I watched a clip of him yelling at a reporter for mentioning your name –”

      “Aw, _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor protested, “but I came here to coach _you_ ,”

      Suddenly Yuri was leaning around Yuuri and shouting in Russian at Viktor again, and Yuuri was worried that there was some sort of argument being resurrected, but Viktor only laughed.

      “Yuuri _isn’t_ my boyfriend, but even if he _was_ it really wouldn’t have affected my choice.”

      “Ты любишь его,” Yuri sounded accusatory, making a grab for the bottle of sake Viktor still held loosely.

      Viktor lifted the bottle out of Yuri’s reach and said, “Может быть и так. No alcohol, Yurio, there’s soda in the basket.”

      Yuuri, beet red and flustered from first the notion of being Viktor’s boyfriend and then the Russian Viktor and Yuri were speaking over his head, numbly handed Yuri a bottle of lychee soda. Yuri scowled at him, but the corner of his lip was twitching like he was suppressing a smile. Well, at least he wasn’t ostensibly pouting any longer – though he did lob a bottle of soda at Yuuri’s head. All of their moods improved once they got started eating the bento Hiroko had prepared for them.

      Around a mouthful of rice, Yuri said, “I’m taking your mother back to Russia, pig. She needs to teach dedushka how to make this,”

      Yuuri laughed. “Say it, don’t spray it, Yurio.”

      Viktor turned his head like Makkachin did when he was confused. “What does that mean?”

      “You don’t have that phrase in Russian?” Viktor and Yuri shook their heads and Yuuri shrugged. “My old roommate, Phichit Chulanont, learned most of his English by watching American movies from the 80’s and 90’s, and his diction ended up rubbing off on me. It just means ‘don’t talk with a full mouth’; like when you do, you get bits of food on whomever you’re talking to.”

      Yuri still looked a little confused, but acted like he understood anyway. “I don’t spray people with food without _meaning_ to,” he said, sticking his nose in the air haughtily.

      Viktor and Yuuri burst into laughter, and after a little bit, Yuri laughed, too, though he did his best to conceal that.

      Yuuri was grateful that the tension had more or less dissipated. This was most likely the most relaxed he’d been around Viktor and Yuri, the most comfortable all of them seemed. It didn’t seem quite fair that what could potentially be a good friendship with the young Russian Punk couldn’t be explored because he’d be going home – but at the same time, there was a giddy excitement Yuuri felt, because now the real training with Viktor for the Grand Prix would begin.

      By the time they’d finished their food (and Viktor had made a much larger dent in the sake than Yuuri felt was wise), the sun had set and the night sky was bright with stars. The temperatures had dropped a few degrees, but between the fire and how close Viktor was sitting to him, Yuuri was comfortable. Conversation between the three of them had been all over the place, from Yuri boldly declaring that he’d beat Yuuri into a pulp (metaphorically or not, he did not clarify) in the Grand Prix series, the devolution of Yakov’s hairline, to nuances that told the Nishigori triplets apart, before falling into a lull. Yuuri nearly forgot the package Mari had slipped into the basket with the bento. Forcing himself to leave the warmth of Viktor’s side, Yuuri got to his feet and went to the basket to retrieve the package.

      On the brown paper wrapping, Mari’s familiar scrawl read, _Yuuri – these were a gift from Masihide-san, but I don’t have any good time to use them. I thought they would be fun for you three. Be smart._ Pulling the paper away, Yuuri found that he was holding a box of fireworks (sparklers, really).

      Seeing Yuuri with the parcel, Yuri had wandered over. “What’s that?”

      “Mari sent along some fireworks for us,” Yuuri said, holding the box out for Yuri to see.

      Yuri squinted at the box like he could read the kanji before shrugging. “Do you have to do anything special with them?”

      “Ah,” Yuuri began, “no, but let’s get Viktor to help us. Vik–?”

      Before Yuuri could finish calling him, Viktor had staggered over, unsteady in the sand. “What’s this?”

      “Fireworks?” Yuri answered uncertainly.

      Viktor plucked the box from Yuuri’s hands. “Ah! Oh, I used to raise hell with something like this when I was younger. I think we can blame some of Yakov’s bald head on these…”

      Yuuri blinked. It was hard to imagine this smiling, somewhat clueless man intentionally raising hell as a teenager – but all the same, Yuuri was intrigued. “Really?” he started to ask, but Viktor was already pulling a sparkler from the package and turning to light the end of it with the small bonfire.

      Yuri swore and jumped away from them preemptively, making Viktor laugh and brandish the now-sparking firework towards him. The sparkler Viktor had selected was blue, and each time it was waved around, a trail of color seemed to linger in the sky. Feeling bold, Yuuri selected one for himself and lit it like Viktor had in the fire. This one was orange, looking more like simple fire as Yuuri waved it around. Viktor had one of the widest smiles Yuuri thought he’d ever seen him wear, and Yuri was still standing a little ways away, fingers plugged in his ears, waiting for some kind of explosion.

      “Come on, Yurio, give it a try,” Viktor said as his sparkler fizzled out and he put the embers out in the sand. Yuuri’s, too, was coming to the end of its lifespan, and he strode across the sand to put it out next to Viktor’s.

      “How about we all take one and light them together?” Yuuri offered, holding a hand out to Yuri to coax him over. It was somewhat funny, the Russian Punk being so wary of the fireworks.

      Huffing a large sigh, Yuri took one finger out of his ear and stomped through the sand to make a one-handed grab for the package of sparklers. Laughing – laughing, _laughing_ , Yuuri felt giddy and invincible between the starry sky, the ocean’s steady ebb and flow, Viktor’s smile, and the firelight – Yuuri shook a sparkler out for Yuri to grab, took one for himself and passed the package to Viktor. Together, they put the ends of their sparklers where the lapping flames could light them and waited the few seconds for the fireworks to come to life.

      Yuri’s was first to light up, a dark blue like Viktor’s first had been. He jumped sideways, flailing a little and cutting a string of color through the sky. Viktor and Yuuri both had theirs catch at the same time. Viktor was laughing, too, jumping and dancing artlessly in the sand. This sparkler was fuchsia, much like Viktor’s _Stammi Vicino_ costume jacket. Moving almost without thinking, Yuuri was spinning after both Viktor and Yuri with his green sparkler, cutting his own path through the sky.

      Somehow it felt natural, familiar, for Yuuri to dance through the sand with the Russians. Yuri had a look of fierce determination on his face, and as his blue sparkler was spluttering out he was reaching for a new one to light. And then he was chasing Yuuri with a sparkler in each hand, arcing them around like twin serpents in his wake. Yuuri didn’t know when the last time he’d laughed like this was, or when he’d last felt so comfortable with people who were still relative strangers. Panting a little, Yuuri called for Yuri to give him a chance to light his own fresh sparklers, and soon they were off again, challenging each other with sloppy toe loops and salchows in the sand, trailing color and sparks of flame behind them.

      If Yuuri had looked then to Viktor, he’d have seen tears in the other man’s eyes despite the wide grin on his face.

 

      They stayed a little longer on the beach after they had exhausted the supply of sparklers. Yuri, worn out from his fierce dedication to dancing through the sand in finer form than Yuuri and Viktor, was slumped on one of the blankets, fast asleep. Viktor and Yuuri sat together in silence, looking out at the waves. Yuuri had finally imbibed in a few sips of sake offered from the nearly-empty bottle; he figured there wasn’t enough left in the whole bottle to get him drunk, so there wouldn’t be any risk of the alcohol impacting him negatively in practice the next day.

      Tears gone without being remarked upon, Viktor watched the ocean with a smile plastered on his face. He was still just the slightest bit out of breath – taking a break from training and skating other than to lazily go through the programs he’d choreographed in the last week had definitely made an impact on how in-shape he was. Even so, Viktor felt at peace, or as close to it as he’d felt in a while. And this Yuuri that he’d seen tonight, dancing and laughing and free with his charms – it made Viktor feel like he was back at the Grand Prix Banquet. If only Yuuri would’ve danced closer, put his body against Viktor’s… there was an ache of longing, of something like homesickness, in Viktor’s stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. Even if the frustration made him want to take the half-empty lighter in his pocket and march straight to Mari Katsuki’s room and demand a cigarette, he had to be patient.

      Because right then, he was just about the luckiest man on the planet. And _tomorrow_ – tomorrow, he’d begin coaching Yuuri Katsuki in earnest. And he couldn’t wait.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if y'all are familiar with the concept of 'heart eyes howell'; it's not something I generally subscribe to but that terminology is applicable here in describing how Vik looks at Yuuri lmao  
> I know there wasn't as much 'mafia' talk in this chapter, but never fear, it's definitely going to be mentioned in the next chapter. Thank you as always for reading this, and thank you even more if you decide to leave kudos or a comment! Those genuinely make my day so much brighter. If you have questions about this work, you can hit me up [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	5. Restlessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor finally begins properly coaching Yuuri; Yuuri is asked to slip away for an alteration to be made to his tattoo. He finds himself in a situation where he must decide how much to trust Viktor with an explanation of his feelings, or face giving up skating altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little shorter and perhaps a little more angsty than the previous chapter, but we're finally getting into some more of the yakuza dynamics and Yuuri's feelings surrounding them. Bonus - there's a familiar face here, too ;) Enjoy!

      On his first official day of training with Viktor, Yuuri overslept. To be fair, he’d been up hours after returning late from the beach with Yuri and Viktor, and then he’d woken up briefly to send Yuri off to the airport – but it was past noon and Yuuri was supposed to meet Viktor at the rink no later than eleven. Yuuri tried to think of a suitable excuse as he pulled on joggers. _I could say I was too warm and comfortable with Makkachin sleeping under the covers with me… no, he’ll just get upset that I had the dog for the night,_ Yuuri nervously reasoned with himself, _and anyway, I don’t want to blame old Makkachin, he’s the best of all of us._

      Usually there was some sort of poise Yuuri tried to maintain on his morning jogs to the rink. There was no such discernable poise today; Yuuri ran like a madman, arms flailing (which didn’t make him any faster, and on the contrary tired him out quicker).

      Viktor was on the ice when Yuuri burst through the doors. It looked like he was holding a pose, one knee bent and a hand on his hip, facing the far wall of the rink.

“I’m so sorry! I overslept,” Yuuri panted, terrified of what Viktor’s reaction to his lateness would be.

      Viktor turned, flipping his hair and giving Yuuri a smile that made his knees weaker than they already were. “Good morning, Yuuri! Only Aeroflot has kept me waiting longer than you.”

      Yuuri skidded across the ice to bow deeply in apology to Viktor, who only chuckled.

      “Resting is an important part of training, you know,” he said gently.

      Yuuri looked up at Viktor through his eyelashes. _He’s not mad?_

      Viktor lived for surprising people, and it seemed that he’d never cease to surprise Yuuri. Even the fact that he was staying in Hasetsu, just to coach Yuuri – the whole thing was surreal. _It’s like having a god around rather than a coach,_ Yuuri thought as Viktor offered a hand to pull Yuuri to his feet. After the partnership his family had made with Yamamoto and Fukuyama, there was money enough that if Yuuri had wanted, he could’ve asked his parents for his own, private coach. But Yuuri hated asking for things; it had taken more than a month to convince himself to ask his parents if he could train in America. It wasn’t that the Katsukis didn’t dote on Yuuri or didn’t support his skating; Yuuri simply felt like a burden, asking for anything more than what he felt was acceptable. Constantly, his mind was a battle of wanting to excel and skate on a global platform against not wanting to exist any louder than any other person, not wanting to have the potential to be a burden. So he’d never had a coach of his own, not even Celestino in Detroit, whom he’d shared not only with Phichit but a handful of other internationally recognized skaters.

      And now, Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri’s idol, was living at Yuuri’s house and skating with Yuuri every day, having vowed – unprompted – to make Yuuri an international gold medalist. _He said I could pay his coaching fees later, but never gave any indication of what they might be… I wonder what the cost will be, or how I’ll be able to afford it… I can’t ask the ninkyō dantai, I’m not nearly that valuable to them. What am I going to –_

      Yuuri hit the ice first with this shoulder and then with his chest.

      “Yuuri!” Viktor called, thankfully without a trace of irritation in his accented voice. “You tend to flub your jumps when something is on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?”

      Yuuri got to his feet but turned away from Viktor’s open face. There was a lot on his mind, but he wasn’t going to unload any of it onto Viktor. “I’m fine.”

 

      Later that night, Viktor asked Yuuri to join him in the hot springs. Yuuri declined, as he was meeting with Nobunaga within the hour, but when Viktor’s face fell, Yuuri agreed to sit by the spring for a while with him. Cheeks aflame, he was sure to look away when Viktor dropped his towel from around his waist a few feet from the hot spring, talking to Yuuri like nothing had happened.

      “Yuuri, I think we should nix having three quads in your program,” Viktor said suddenly.

      Yuuri turned to Viktor in shock and immediately regretted it – Viktor was doing a series of extraordinarily revealing stretches before getting into the spring. Yuuri got an eyeful of, well, everything, from Viktor’s enviably perfect physique to the patchwork of black ink tattoos on his torso. _God, what do they mean?_ Yuuri almost wondered aloud. He had to swallow hard and put a hand on his face before he could reply, “Why? I _need_ them to win the Grand Prix Final.”

      “Why?” Viktor said, his voice amiable, casual. “Even if there’s only one quad, you’ll just need to get a perfect score on the other components.”

      Yuuri buried his head in his hands. _At any rate, this isn’t good enough_ , he mentally lamented _, I have to change._ To Viktor, he said, “I think I should go…”

      He could feel that someone had walked closer to him – from the soft scent of rose bergamot and sandalwood lingering under the smell of the hot spring, Yuuri knew it was Viktor. He didn’t open his eyes or move, even when Viktor leaned close and asked quietly, “Do you know why I chose to coach you, Yuuri?”

      “Huh?” Yuuri opened his eyes when Viktor grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet.

      “I was drawn to you because of the music – the way you skate, it’s like your body is _creating_ the music. I want to create a high-difficulty program to build off that. Only _I_ can create something perfect like that, that’s the gut feeling I had.”

      Viktor was leaning so close to Yuuri, still holding his hands, that Yuuri’s lips felt like they were buzzing bees, the same way they’d felt when Viktor drunkenly kissed him in the hall between their bedrooms. He could almost see his cheeks turning red in the image of himself reflected in Viktor’s pale eyes.

      And then Viktor _wasn’t_ kissing Yuuri; he was pulling him to his feet with a dramatic flourish. “And I was right!”

 _He was right? He was – right, he’s talking about choreographing for me_ , Yuuri thought belatedly. Viktor’s hands were traveling over Yuuri’s clothed body to grab his calf and steady his shoulder, pulling him into an arabesque.

      “I think you should choreograph your own free skate,” Viktor was continuing, as if this was a completely normal conversation and he wasn’t buck naked.

      “What?” Yuuri asked, having trouble following what Viktor was saying when his hands were still on him, pulling their bodies together into ballet positions. “But… my coach has always chosen my music –”

      Viktor pulled Yuuri’s leg back even more, so he was doing a vertical split. Yuuri made an embarrassing groan, but hopefully Viktor hadn’t heard, because he was continuing, “It’s more fun if you do it yourself!”

      “But my previous coach –”

      “Ah, who was your coach again?”

      Yuuri cleared his throat. “Uh, Celestino Cialdini, when I was at school in America,” it was then that Yuuri caught sight of Yamamoto at the entrance to the private hot spring, watching them silently. His face was impassive, but Yuuri felt his cheeks flushing with renewed vigor. Slipping out of Viktor’s grip, touching him as little as possible, Yuuri mumbled, “But I was serious when I said I had a prior engagement. I have to go, Viktor, I’m sorry.”

      Viktor was pouting, Yuuri knew without even looking over his shoulder at him. It hurt, the idea of upsetting Viktor – even if Viktor was just pouting for sure. Doing well to keep his eyes up, Yuuri turned and squeezed Viktor’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon, and I promise if you’re awake we can talk more about this.” _And hopefully you’ll have more clothes on, too,_ Yuuri silently added.

      Viktor sighed, his whole torso heaving under Yuuri’s hand. But he gave Yuuri the smallest smile, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and said, “Hurry back to me, then.”

      Yamamoto rolled his eyes and smiled knowingly when Yuuri hurried past him, murmuring both a greeting and a farewell.

 

      Nobunaga didn’t ask why Yuuri was out of breath when he opened the door for him. When he led Yuuri to the back room, there was already a teapot and two cups set out on a tray. Yuuri thanked Nobunaga profusely, even though he thought his stomach was perhaps turning too much from Viktor’s touch to drink anything quite yet.

      “So, um, Nobunaga-san, why exactly did you want me to come today?” Yuuri asked. Nobunaga had told Yuuri right after his win of Hot Spring on Ice to come by, but not why.

      Nobunaga took a long sip of tea before replying, “When I saw you skate, I realized I had made a mistake in the color of your koi, Yuuri-kun. Before, I had not known much about your figure skating. But I saw a change in you, Yuuri-kun, when you beat the Russian Yuri. It’s been many years since I met you, Yuuri-kun, and I saw that, while others were welcoming you back, you had actually been reborn into someone new. You have changed. And your tattoo should represent that.”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say. He started to stammer around a clumsy way of saying ‘thank you’ but Nobunaga handed him a cup of tea instead.

      There were already ink pots set up to the side of the tatami, but only black ink. “Are you going to add a new design, Nobunaga-san?”

      “No, Yuuri-kun,” Nobunaga said, a glint in his eye. “We will change the scales of the koi.”

      Yuuri pursed his lips. He wasn’t too attached to the red koi fish, but it hadn’t been the most pleasant to heal. There really wasn’t any arguing with Nobunaga, though, especially when he’d approached Yuuri first with a request to tattoo him. Yuuri took a final sip of the tea, pulled his sweater off, and laid down on the tatami.

      There wasn’t any excess fat for Nobunaga to tease about this time, but there was the ugly black bruise built over Yuuri’s right side where he’d hit the ice flubbing jumps earlier in the day.

      “I see your coach has been disciplining you, Yuuri-kun,” Nobunaga chuckled, sitting on Yuuri’s left side and readying the bamboo and steel brush of needles he used to hand-poke tattoos. Yuuri blushed, but then Nobunaga added in a thoughtful voice, “Or perhaps it’s you who has the higher standards…”

 

      When Yuuri headed back home, it was nearly midnight. He didn’t know if Viktor would be awake to talk about Celestino’s coaching or not. Nobunaga had wrapped the koi up before Yuuri could get a good look at it, but he wasn’t too concerned – it was a part of him now, and there would be plenty of time to admire it when the swelling and redness went down, anyway.

      Yuuri was greeted at Yu-topia’s back door by Makkachin, who was always a welcome presence to return to. Where was Viktor, though? There were voices downstairs, which surprised Yuuri a little. His parents didn’t exactly go to bed early, but if they stayed up late it was usually reading (Hiroko) or watching clips of old Sagan Tosu games on a tablet (Toshiya) in their bedroom. Mari likewise kept to herself – her closest friends were Minako and a handful of ninkyō dantai brothers. So who was talking in the main room?

      He followed Makkachin to the main dining room, where Viktor and Hiroko were sitting around one of the tables. Spread out over the table was some of the contents of a battered box – a box Yuuri recognized well. The color drained from his face. His mother was showing Viktor – _Viktor Nikiforov_ – pictures from Yuuri’s childhood. And Viktor seemed to be having the time of his life.

      Of course, Viktor saw Yuuri first. “Hi, Yuuri!” he said, smiling widely and waving.

      “Oh, Yuuri!” Hiroko said, looking over her shoulder at her son.

      “Mom, what are you _doing_?” Yuuri asked in Japanese, knowing it was rude of him but momentarily too numb to care.

      Hiroko’s smile didn’t falter. She answered in English, so Viktor could understand. “Vicchan looked so sad when you left, I asked if he wanted to see pictures of you and he said yes!”

      Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take a deep breath. Viktor hadn’t said anything about how chubby Yuuri had been as a child, yet, so that was something. Maybe this wasn’t as terribly embarrassing as Yuuri was afraid it was.

      But then Viktor was grabbing his hand, pulling Yuuri over to sit next to him. “Yuuri! Look, this is you by the TV when I won the Junior World Championships! I didn’t know you watched that! And look how cute you are,” Viktor was tapping the photo excitedly. Hiroko was smiling proudly.

      Yuuri didn’t need Viktor to give him details, he remembered the night clearly. Yuuko and Yuuri had stayed up late to watch the grainy feed that the inn’s old TV got, and Yuuri had cried when Viktor won. This picture was a little after that moment, with the TV in the background showing a close up of sweaty, sixteen-year old, triumphant Viktor. Yuuri was posing in front of the TV, beaming like he’d been the one who’d won. Before Yuuri could say anything, though, Viktor was producing another picture. This one was of Yuuri holding Vicchan as a young dog, not a puppy but not quite an adult.

      “Mama Katsuki said you had a poodle, too, Yuuri!” Viktor continued. “He looks just like Makkachin, except smaller!”

      Makkachin, hearing his name, barked. Yuuri pulled the big old poodle into his lap, burying his nose in his fur. A lump rose in his throat, seeing that picture of him and Vicchan.

      “Yeah,” he managed to say. “He was a good dog.”

      “Oh,” Viktor said, realizing he’d hit a nerve. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I didn’t think –”

      Yuuri tried not to sniffle. He let Makkachin off his lap and stood. “It’s alright, Viktor. Let’s finish talking about my free skate, though, and uh… forget about everything you saw here.”

      Viktor took the hand Yuuri had offered to help him to his feet, but didn’t let go even when he was standing, instead lacing his fingers through Yuuri’s. “Okay, but you have to tell me all about your date tonight!”

      Yuuri choked on his own spit. “I wasn’t on a date,” he protested, but Viktor wasn’t listening. Instead, he was dragging Yuuri towards the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Thank you, Mama Katsuki!”

      When they were settled on the floor of Viktor’s bedroom, Makkachin lying between them so he touched Viktor’s foot and Yuuri’s knee, Viktor had put Yuuri’s baby pictures out of his mind (momentarily, at least). He leaned forward, just inside Yuuri’s personal space, demanding Yuuri’s attention.

      “So the date you were on?”

      “I wasn’t on a _date_ , Viktor,”

      “You’ve been gone hours, Yuuri,” Viktor pouted, “You wouldn’t even soak in the hot springs with me!”

      Yuuri closed his eyes for a heartbeat. True, he had abandoned Viktor in favor of being tattooed by a regionally revered irezumi master, but how could he explain that to Viktor? “Viktor, I _swear_ it wasn’t a date.”

      Viktor looked doubtful, though. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. The neckline of his shirt was so stretched out that it was exposing a great chunk of the tattoo that ran along the top of his shoulder. _No_ , Yuuri wanted to say. Instead, he leaned in so that his nose was almost touching Viktor’s – dangerously close.

      “Of course I trust you, Viktor.” Yuuri lied.

      Thankfully, Viktor seemed satisfied with that. He sat back a little and fished his phone from the pocket of the soft joggers he was wearing as pajamas. “So you said your coach was Celestino Cialdini?”

      “Yes…” Yuuri said, cautious. Viktor’s tone had changed, become more clinical.

      “His name is very familiar to me, I know I’ve probably met him somewhere in the years, but it seems like there’s something else…”

 _Could he have been involved with Celestino and the Lucavoli Family somehow?_ Yuuri wondered. He tried not to panic, instead interrupting Viktor’s musings with, “Oh, maybe through Phichit? My old roommate, Phichit Chulanont, still skates with Celestino even though his main rink is in Thailand now. Phichit has a big online presence, maybe you’ve seen Celestino there.”

      Yuuri knew he was rambling, but Viktor seemed satisfied by that answer. He shrugged. “Sure, that’s probably it. Do you think he would mind if we called him?”

      Hasetsu was thirteen hours ahead of Detroit. Even though it was past midnight now for Yuuri and Viktor, it was only late morning for Celestino. The biggest issue, really, was that Yuuri hadn’t spoken to Celestino since leaving Detroit. Viktor was watching Yuuri expectantly, though, so Yuuri found Celestino’s number in his contacts and put the phone on speaker. Makkachin, still lying between Yuuri and Viktor, made a good surface for the phone to rest on.

      “Yuuri? Ciao, ciao!” Celestino’s Italian accented voice boomed through the speakers, and Yuuri felt the ghost of a smile on his lips. He could almost see Celestino waving. He continued, “I haven’t seen you since the Grand Prix Final.”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, watching Yuuri bite his lip and grimace. “Oh, it’s been a while,” he said lamely.

      “I hear Viktor’s your coach now.”

      Viktor smiled even as Yuuri flinched. “I’m sorry.”

      “Why are you apologizing?” Celestino asked.

      Viktor reached for Yuuri’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly even as he leaned over to speak over the phone. “Ciao, ciao, Celestino! It’s Viktor Nikiforov, I’m Yuuri’s coach now!”

      Celestino’s tone changed with Viktor. “So you really _are_ playing at being coach in Japan? Cut it out already.”

      “Hey, hey,” Viktor said, frowning. He’d deflated a little at Celestino’s sharpness, but he gave Yuuri’s hand another squeeze and seemed to remember why they had called at all. “Celestino, why didn’t you ever let Yuuri pick his own music?”

      “Hmm? Well, I usually select my skaters’ music, but they’re of course allowed to choose their own if they’d like. Yuuri only brought me a piece once; I believe it had been composed by an acquaintance.”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow at Yuuri, but again had fallen silent. Yuuri frowned. He remembered this. In Viktor’s grip, his fingers twitched, and Viktor ran his thumb soothingly over the back of Yuuri’s hand.

      “It wasn’t bad, but…” Yuuri was sure Celestino had shrugged here. “I questioned Yuuri on if he thought he could win with that piece and he told me to select the music, after all. He never had confidence in himself. I told him time and time again to trust in himself but…”

      When Celestino tapered off, Viktor nodded and said, “Okay, thanks.”

      It looked like Viktor was going to hang the phone up, so Yuuri picked it up and cleared his throat. “Uh, Celestino,” he began, voice unsteady. How did he say this in a way that wasn’t so awkward, that didn’t insult Celestino? “I plan to redeem myself at the Grand Prix Final.”

      Celestino was quiet for a moment. Then, “That’s what I’d wanted to hear from you last year.”

      The phone call ended shortly after that, and Yuuri thought he could physically feel the weight lifting off his shoulders (which was quite welcome, as the koi on his chest was starting to ache).

      “I’m so glad,” Yuuri murmured, running a hand through Makkachin’s soft coat. “I’d been putting off talking to Celestino for so long, I was afraid he’d be upset with me.”

      “Yuuri,” Viktor said, obviously not listening. He walked on his knees around Makkachin so he could drape himself dramatically over Yuuri’s shoulder. “Can I hear this music Celestino mentioned? Why didn’t you tell me about it? I’m your coach, aren’t I?” at that, he’d nuzzled his nose under Yuuri’s jaw, much like a cat. _Maybe he’s being affectionate because he’s tired_ , Yuuri thought, cheeks turning pink.

      “Right, uh, sorry,” he stammered. “Maybe tomorrow morning is better, though. You seem tired.”

      Viktor yawned. “I am. It’s not easy, being a coach – I owe Yakov more credit.”

      Yuuri stood and turned to go. He wasn’t ready to go to bed yet, but he did want to change out of the clothes he’d been tattooed in.

      “ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor protested, grabbing Yuuri’s hand again. “You could stay here, you know? Sleep with me?”

      Yuuri’s cheeks turned even pinker. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Viktor.”

      Viktor pushed his lips out, pouting. A large part of Yuuri wanted to, wanted to shuck off his sweater and track pants and dive under the covers of Viktor’s bed. But he couldn’t, especially not now with his fresh yakuza tattoo. What would Viktor say if he saw it? _And how am I ever going to explain it all?_ With one last squeeze of Viktor’s hand, Yuuri slipped from his grip and escaped to his own room to lie face down on his bed, chest throbbing a little with something more than just the new tattoo, and wonder how this is what his life had become.

 

⋆

 

      Yuuko kept in touch with the Russian Yuri. She’d taken him under her wing, whether he knew it or not, thinking of him as something of a younger brother or another child (Yuuko was always a kind of mothering friend, even when she and Yuuri and Nishigori had been quite young). Surprisingly, though, Yuri apparently contributed to their relationship – it wasn’t just Yuuko sending short notes asking after Yuri’s day and wishing him the best.

      So Yuuri shouldn’t have been surprised when a week later, Yuuko came into the locker room holding her phone and said, “I don’t really get it, but Yurio-kun’s coach brought in his ex-wife to choreograph Yurio-kun’s free skate. Apparently he’s being scolded by her day and night.”

      The triplets were crowded around Yuuko’s legs like they always were, but each girl was watching Yuuri for a reaction. Yuuri almost felt bad that he couldn’t give them a better response.

      “Huh, I see,” he mustered. It was just another thing to carry for him, that Yuri was working with a professional choreographer. Yuuri didn’t have his free skate even remotely planned out. Viktor had been putting Yuuri through drills, trying to strengthen his abysmal quads, in the interim, and Yuuri was exhausted.

      “Have you decided on a song for your program yet?” Yuuko prodded.

      Yuuri did his best not to sound so dejected. “Well, I had Viktor listen to one the other day, but his reaction was lukewarm…”

      Viktor had smiled at Yuuri and dropped a bomb: _I think you should look for other possibilities_.

      Walking back alone to Yu-topia from the rink, Yuuri had time to think. Viktor had left the rink before Yuuri had finished cooling down, and Yuuri suspected that Viktor’s explanation of wanting to help Hiroko cook dinner was code for ‘your mother is going to show me more of your baby pictures’.

      Viktor was something else, having led a life so foreign to Yuuri’s own _. I bet he’s never even had to wonder about music for programs like this_ , Yuuri thought. According to the skating magazine articles Yuuri had hoarded growing up, Viktor choreographed his own programs and usually had new music written to accompany them. For him, there hadn’t been a coach controlling the programs or music. When Yuuri was younger, reading those candid articles about Viktor’s methods, his approaches to skating, all he wanted was to be like him. But now, as an adult skater, he found it much more of a burden than he’d anticipated – it was easier to let someone else control his programs.

      Yuuri arrived home later than usual. His parents and Mari were in the living room; Viktor was either out getting drinks or had already gone to bed. Viktor always had been one to go to bed early but lately, Yuuri felt like he saw him even less than normal. He couldn’t really begrudge Viktor for making friends, but made him jealous all the same. And to know Viktor had spent the handful of hours between leaving Yuuri at the rink and going out for drink with some locals poring through bits of Yuuri’s childhood rankled even more. Here was Yuuri’s idol, carving out a place for himself in Yuuri’s life when Yuuri couldn’t even move past finding a song to skate to in order to ask Viktor questions off that topic. Yuuri felt pathetic; he was frustrated and his tattoo was itching and he couldn’t even take his irritation with himself out on the ice, because all it did was remind him more of Viktor.

      He’d come home and skipped dinner to go straight to his room, stewing in his bad mood, to write out plans for his free skate and scratch them all out. Nothing was good enough; nothing would meet Viktor’s standards, let alone Yuuri’s. Not for the first time this week, Yuuri wondered if this was the right decision, continuing to skate. Maybe it would be easier to go instead to Fukuyama, to send Viktor home. Yuuri never got far with that line of thinking, though – it was too painful to imagine the gaping hole Viktor would leave if he went back to Russia. And anyway, there was always the chance that Fukuyama wouldn’t _want_ someone like Yuuri to move through the more powerful ranks of saiko-komon.

      Yuuri pulled off his shirt, hoping the absence of fabric against his tattoo would quell some of the itchiness. Rubbing lotion into the dry skin around the ink, though, and moving to working out knots in his own pectorals was a good enough distraction from his lack of a free skate program. Nobunaga had updated the koi’s color by recoloring the scales with black ink. With the stippling effect traditional irezumi tattoo brushes created, you could still see the red undertone through the new black ink, not like a watercolor wash would still show the underpainting beneath. At the top of each scale, the black ink was solid, moving to a gradient that ended with more than a hint of red at the bottom of each scale. It reminded Yuuri, when he inspected it the first time he changed the wrappings on the tattoo, of Viktor’s – of _his_ , he corrected himself – black and red short program outfit.

      Nobunaga had clasped Yuuri’s shoulders before letting him leave for the night and said in a serious tone, “Red koi are common, masculine and energetic. But the black koi, Yuuri-kun, is earned with successfully overcoming a major change. And you have felt that adversity, and proved even now by winning the competition against the Russian Yuri, and that you can overcome disadvantages, Yuuri-kun, and rise to meet challenges is something to wear with pride.”

      And then Yuuri had to go back and pretend nothing had happened with Viktor, act like he wasn’t at war with himself between notions of greatness and inferiority.

      Yuuri leaned his head against his desk, done with moisturizing the tattoo. Now that it was a bit less itchy, he could think a little clearer. It was getting late, there wasn’t much use in getting so worked up that he wouldn’t be able sleep. Not wanting to continue stressing over the stupid free skate, he instead fished his phone from the pocket of the gym shorts he had changed into after returning from the rink. On his home screen, there was a missed text from Viktor (it still boggled his mind sometimes, the fact that _Viktor Nikiforov_ had his phone number and _texted_ him, no less).

 **22:23 Viktor** : Yuuri, Minako invited me to her snack bar tonight and I probably won’t see you until the morning! Sleep well!!

      There was a funny twist in Yuuri’s stomach reading it, just like there was every time Viktor said something so thoughtlessly endearing. And he was such an _ass_ , and Yuuri wanted to be irritated at him for being so unhelpful in finding a proper song to use for his free skate… but there was no point in it. Yuuri opened the text so it would leave his notifications, but closed his messages app and instead opened Instagram.

      It had been a little since Yuuri had last checked his feed, and it was inundated with a disorganized mess of posts. Phichit was training in Thailand this season, but his habit of documenting everything hadn’t been changed one bit. It made Yuuri smile – even though so much had changed since they shared a cramped apartment in Detroit, Phichit was still the same, endearingly enthusiastic guy. He’d always been great at putting himself out there and being unapologetic in his passion for skating and the same old musicals. In fact, it was Phichit who had introduced Yuuri to the conservatory student who had written the piece of music that Yuuri had almost used a few years ago for his free skate. An idea occurred to Yuuri, and he was opening FaceTime and calling Phichit in seconds.

      “Yuuri! It’s been a while, how have you been?” Phichit asked, smiling and waving when he answered the call. It was similar to what Celestino had said the week before, and Yuuri felt a stab of shame at having neglected his relationships outside of Hasetsu.

      “I see you’re practicing in Thailand,” Yuuri said, smiling back at Phichit. His eyeliner was impeccable even though it was clear he’d been sweating on the ice.

      Phichit shrugged. “Detroit’s been boring since you left. But you could come visit Bangkok, I’ll show you around!”

      Yuuri laughed. He doubted Viktor would be keen on taking time off of practicing when competition season was rapidly approaching. In Thai, he thanked Phichit.

      It was then that Phichit noticed the tattoo on Yuuri’s chest. He’d seen it before, of course, over the years he and Yuuri had lived together, but not inked in with color. “Wow, Yuuri! You’ve been doing more than just Viktor, huh?”

      Yuuri started to agree without thinking, but when Phichit’s meaning hit he turned red and dropped his face onto the desk in front of him. “Phichit!” he chastised, though without any real anger.

      Phichit was shrugging again when Yuuri looked back at the phone, this time with a face that was completely unapologetic. “Well, give me a good look, then. Why didn’t you tell me you were getting it colored in?”

      “I guess I forgot, I’m sorry. This was finished right after I got back, actually. About time I guess…” Yuuri scooted back in his chair and sat up straight so his chest piece wasn’t in shadow. Phichit wolf-whistled and Yuuri was turning pink again.

      “I thought it was just gonna be outlines forever,” Phichit joked. “Looks good, Yuuri. But what’s Viktor think about it?”

      Yuuri bit his lip and looked away. He hadn’t even shown Phichit his tattoo directly until they’d lived together for months. Phichit still didn’t know the meaning behind the irezumi, or if he did, he certainly hadn’t mentioned knowing he was involved in crime to Yuuri.

      “Oh my god, you haven’t shown him? How the hell has that worked, then, don’t you have to get naked to –”

      “ _Phichit_!”

      “You didn’t let me finish! I was _going_ to say ‘to get in the hot springs’, jeez, Yuuri. You’ve got a dirty mind, man.”

      “Phichit, for fuck’s sake,” Yuuri said, trying to keep his face straight but dissolving into laughter anyway. “I was _perfectly_ respectable until I met you.”

      Phichit rolled his eyes. “What a lie, Katsuki.”

      “If we were in the same room you know I’d already have thrown a shoe at you.”

      “What, one of those big stilettos you got for pole dancing?”

      Yuuri yelped. “Phichit! That was your idea anyway, remember?”

      Phichit was coming off the ice; he set the phone on the boards so Yuuri was staring up at the rink’s ceiling while Phichit snapped on his skate guards. His voice was indistinct, muffled by his arm and the distance between his mouth and the phone, but it sounded like he said, “Damn _good_ idea, too.”

      It was a good a time as any to change the subject. When Phichit picked the phone back up, Yuuri asked, “Phichit, do you remember how I had that music demo made?”

      “Yeah, it was another one of my good ideas. You had that conservatory chick compose it for you, right? Why do you ask?”

      “I mean it was shelved in the end… and I don’t know, things got kinda awkward with her after that.”

      Phichit raised an eyebrow. “You want to chase tail when you have a buck-naked childhood wet dream in the next room?” Yuuri almost choked on his spit, and Phichit was laughing again, waving his hand as if to erase his statement. “No, I know what you’re saying, chill. Do you want me to put out feelers and see where she is now?”

      “Yeah,” Yuuri said, nodding. He quickly added, “To _compose another piece_ for me! That’s all!”

      “Obviously,” Phichit said, nodding sagely as if he hadn’t been the one to suggest otherwise. “I’m sure she’s not mad or anything that the piece wasn’t used in the end. Don’t worry, Yuuri.”

      “Thanks Phichit. You’re really the best.” Yuuri smiled.

      “I know it!” Phichit said, shaking his head. “That’s why I don’t know why you don’t call more.”

      Yuuri groaned.

 

      It was raining the next morning when Yuuri was jogging to the Ice Castle. Yuuri had his earbuds in, listening to the demo the conservatory student had made for him those years prior. He could see why it was questioned by Celestino and blatantly turned down by Viktor. There was something about it that Yuuri hadn’t noticed when the conservatory student had first given him the demo, but now it stuck out quite clearly to him. As lovely as the piano was, the piece overall felt weak. _But that makes sense_ , Yuuri reasoned. He’d asked her to compose a piece reflecting on his career as a whole – but really, what was there to capture that was intriguing or inspiring? _I guess she did a pretty good job_ , Yuuri thought with a small smile. _But what can I do differently, if I get back in touch with her? What can I ask from her?_

      Viktor wasn’t at the rink when Yuuri arrived, having left with Yuuko to pick up coffee from a local shop, but Yuuri went ahead and began warming up on the ice anyway. When Viktor did arrive, holding up a green tea latte for Yuuri, the rain hadn’t let up at all. Yuuri thanked Viktor for the drink, trying not to get distracted by the raindrops that clung onto Viktor’s white-blond eyelashes like diamonds.

 

      “What? You still haven’t chosen music for the free skate?” Viktor asked a few hours later.

      Yuuri leaned against the boards, breathing hard. Viktor had been instructing Yuuri through speed drills, and even Yuuri’s hardy stamina had taken a beating.

      “Why can’t you trust your own decisions?” Viktor asked, reaching over the boards to move a sweaty strand of hair out of Yuuri’s eyes. “Just try to remember something, like when a girlfriend loved you.”

 _Again_ with the girlfriend talk – hadn’t Yuuri explained enough that he’d never dated anyone? “What?” he snapped, louder than he intended. His voice echoed through the empty rink, and immediately he felt sick. _I just yelled at my coach, I just yelled at Viktor – never mind that he’s forgetful, I can’t believe I did that. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “Sorry, I’m so sorry! It’s just, right now I—”

      Viktor raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised. “Right,” he said flatly. “You’ve never _had_ a girlfriend.”

      Somehow, that stung even more than being chastised would.

 

      Later, as they were preparing to leave together to return to Yu-topia, Viktor slung his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Yuuri, let’s go somewhere today!”

      To Yuuri, it was obvious that Viktor was trying to somehow make up for his comment earlier. _It’s me who should be apologizing_. Yuuri kept walking, slipping out from under Viktor’s arm. “No, it’s okay.”

 

      That night, Viktor caught Yuuri walking through the main room of Yu-topia and grabbed his hands. “Yuuri, let’s go soak in the hot spring!”

      Yuuri pulled his hands away from Viktor and refused to look at him. “I’m going to sleep.” He lied, like it wasn’t before ten o’clock at night.

 

      At midnight, there was a knock on Yuuri’s door. He opened it warily, and was surprised to see Viktor and Makkachin. Viktor was wearing one of the onsen’s jinbei – he still couldn’t tie them right, or simply refused to, and Yuuri could see the dark tattoos marking Viktor’s flesh. There was something that looked like a bear or tiger that leapt across his stomach the way the koi crossed Yuuri’s chest; it drew his eye, but he couldn’t quite make it out with the shadow and angle.

      “Yuuri, let’s sleep together!” Viktor said, reaching out for Yuuri’s hand, breaking his scrutiny of the tattoo.

      Yuuri shut the door without a word.

 

      Yuuri was always one to stay in bed as late as he could get away with, but the next morning was different. He wasn’t sleeping in, but wide awake, wrapped under his blankets and burning with shame. It wasn’t just that he’d snapped at Viktor the day before; he was constantly avoiding him, never knew how to act. If his thirteen-year-old self was there to have Viktor staying at the onsen, he’d be with him 24/7. All he wanted was to please Viktor, and in trying to be perfect all the time, Yuuri was stressed out and felt like he barely knew Viktor at all. It was eating away at him. How could he fix this, how did he stop turning Viktor away?

      There was a knock at his door, and without a pause, it was opened. Yuuri jumped and sat up, clutching his blanket around his shoulders. Viktor stood in the doorway. For a moment he looked uncertain, but then he smiled.

      “Good morning, Yuuri! Let’s go to the ocean.”

      Yuuri’s heart was in his throat, but he tried his best to return Viktor’s smile. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who are pretty familiar with the show probably know some of the nature of that oceanside conversation Viktor and Yuuri have... Chapter 6 will probably end up going up around Friday - I wanted to just post once a week, but I love sharing this story way too much. We don't have long until the Regional Qualifiers and all the drama that will ensue there, so please stick around. As always, any kind of feedback on my work means the world to me! Please leave kudos and/or a comment, and feel free to come visit my YOI tumblr [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thanks again!


	6. On My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri do their best to figure out their relationship while building Yuuri's free skate. During this, Yuuri is able to look at Viktor's tattoos a little more and Viktor's knowledge of Japanese is badly underestimated during a conversation that should've been held behind doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very brief mention of past drug abuse in this chapter. If you'd like me to explain it and my motivation for including it etc before you read, send me an ask off-anon on my [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) and I'd be more than happy to talk with you.  
> While you're reading, you can check out the short playlists for [Yuuri](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/katsuki-yuuri-btsats) and [Viktor](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/viktor-nikiforov-btsats)!

      The morning was a gray one, with the air tasting of the previous day’s rain. Black-tailed gulls cried loudly, their calls mingling with the rough ebb and flow of the waves against the rocky shore. The beach Viktor and Yuuri had walked to was the same one they’d had a picnic with Yuri on. Now, in the daylight, it seemed like a completely different place.

      Viktor sat down on the ledge between the actual beach and the sloped embankment that led to the road. After a moment’s hesitation, Yuuri sat next to him. His nerves felt fresh and sensitive; there was an underlying, implacable fear broiling under his skin. Trying not to do anything foolish around Viktor, Yuuri pulled his knees to his chest and looked straight ahead. Makkachin settled between them, leaning against Viktor but with his paws touching Yuuri.

      “Ah, seagulls,” Viktor said after a moment, squinting against the gray light through the clouds to see the birds. His voice was soft, and it seemed to belong with the morning beach sounds. “Ever since I arrived here, I’m reminded of my home in St. Petersburg when I hear the gulls in the morning.”

      Viktor never really spoke much about himself, not anything deeper than his old training programs or anecdotes related to his experiences skating. Yuuri turned a little to see him better through the corner of his eye and listened intently.

      “I never thought I’d leave St. Petersburg,” Viktor continued, turning a little, too, to look at Yuuri. “Because of that, I never really noticed the gull’s cries. Do you ever have times like that?”

      There were a lot of things Yuuri wanted to say then. He wanted to say that he constantly felt like he was stumbling through life, losing things left and right, only to look back when he’d gone too far to retrieve them, and only then realizing what exactly he’d lost. Almost always, he was uncertain, doubting himself. For a while, he was quiet, and Viktor didn’t prod. Instead, he ran his fingers through Makkachin’s fur and watched the gulls.

      Finally, Yuuri said, “There was a girl in Detroit, one of Celestino’s skaters. She was nice, but kind of pushy – always wanting to talk to me, never really left me alone. One day, another rink mate of ours had a bad fall. I was pretty torn up, really worried about him. That girl and I both ended up at the hospital in the waiting room. And she tried to hug me, I guess I looked like I needed comfort. Without even thinking, I shoved her away.”

      Viktor pursed his lips, but didn’t stop petting Makkachin. His voice was soft. “Wow, why did you do that?”

      He didn’t sound accusatory, like Yuuri was afraid he might.

      “I didn’t want her to think I was unsettled. I didn’t want to look _weak_.” Yuuri looked away, a lump forming uncomfortably in his throat. This had all happened when he was relatively new in Detroit, unsure of what his role in the yakuza and his career in skating would lead him to. He had been unsure of himself – and really still was. “I felt like she was intruding on my feelings or something, and I hated it.”

      Viktor didn’t say anything, but he’d stopped petting Makkachin. Yuuri could feel his gaze.

      “But then I realized that my family, Minako-sensei, Yuuko-chan and Nishigori… they never treated me like a weakling.” _On the contrary_ , he silently added, _I’d been recognized as someone strong enough to be invited into the ninkyō dantai, and was respected by the other members as well._ “They had all this faith that I’d keep growing as a person, and it never crossed a line for me.”

      When Yuuri looked over to Viktor, he had a smile just curving the corners of his mouth. “Yuuri, you’re not weak,” he said. “I don’t think anyone else thinks that you are; they shouldn’t, at least.”

      They were silent again, just for a moment. Yuuri put a hand on Makkachin, and his fingers brushed Viktor’s.

      “What do _you_ want me to be to you, Yuuri?”

 _Wait… what?_ Yuuri raised his eyebrows, meeting Viktor’s eyes. He knew what it _sounded_ like Viktor was asking, but that couldn’t possibly be right.

      “A father figure?”

      Yuuri closed his eyes, let the wind buffet his hair and cool his cheeks. He had Nobunaga, Fukuyama, and Yamamoto, as well as many other older men and his _actual_ father. “No.”

      “A brother, then? A friend?”

      Yuuri opened his eyes at that. He’d been in _love_ with Viktor for a decade, and that didn’t sound like the sort of thing you thought about your brothers. And he _did_ want Viktor to be his friend… but you couldn’t just tell people that. And wouldn’t it be weird? Yuuri made a noncommittal noise.

      Viktor shrugged, turning to look at Yuuri with a half-smile. “So, your lover, I guess?” Yuuri just about jumped out of his skin. Viktor was looking at Yuuri with his eyelids lowered seductively. “I can try my best…”

      “No, no, no, no!” Yuuri protested, waving his hands. _Are all Russians this forward? God, you can’t just up and_ tell _someone that you’ll be their lover._ Viktor looked shocked, and Yuuri wondered if he’d ever been turned down before – not that that was what Yuuri was trying to do. He got to his feet, looking down at Viktor. “I just want you to be who you are, Viktor.”

      Viktor really did look shocked now, tilting his head and frowning like he didn’t quite understand.

      Yuuri swallowed hard. “I’ve – I’ve always looked up to you, Viktor. And I’ve been avoiding you because I don’t want you to see my shortcomings and my flaws. But I’ll make it up to you with my skating!”

      Viktor’s half-smile was back. He held his hand out to Yuuri. “Okay. I’m not going to let you off easy, though. That’s my way of showing my love.”

      Yuuri took Viktor’s hand and pulled him to his feet, so they were staring each other in the face. Even though he was taller, Viktor was looking at Yuuri through his eyelashes, and Yuuri felt the desire to kiss him brewing in his stomach. He refrained though, still holding Viktor’s hand.

      There wasn’t any mascara painting Viktor’s silvery eyelashes black, nothing to conceal the way the wind had chapped his cheeks pink. And of all the promotional pictures and portraits of Viktor covering Yuuri’s walls, he thought he’d most like to have some picture of _this_ moment, of this Viktor. And best of all was the way Viktor was watching Yuuri, easy and unclouded by pretense. _When I open up to him, he meets me where I am. And I don’t want to be afraid to open up anymore!_

 

      Phichit, bless him, really _was_ the best person at networking. That evening when Yuuri had time to check his email, he found a message waiting from the conservatory student. She was more than happy to rework the music, she wrote, and was looking forward to watching Yuuri skate in the future. And Yuuri knew just what he’d ask her to have in mind while she reworked the composition.

 

      “She’s going to redo the music,” he told Viktor the next morning, when he’d had a second confirmation from the pianist.

      Viktor lifted the corner of his mouth in not-quite a smile, but close enough. “I look forward to it,” he said easily.

      “Um, until then,” Yuuri said slowly, rocking forward on his toes so his nose was almost touching Viktor’s. “I want you to teach me all the jumps you know!”

      Viktor looked surprised, but quickly fell into a proper, heart-shaped smile. “Alright, let’s get to it, then.”

      They spent all day going through jumps. Viktor was on the ice next to Yuuri the whole time. First, he had Yuuri doing each jump with two or three rotations and combinations, making sure Yuuri had them mastered before increasing their difficulty. Finally, after they’d eaten lunch around one, Viktor was going through the quad jumps. Viktor’s own programs in the last season had had four of the five recognized quad jumps – his signature quadruple flip, a quad toe loop, a quad axel, and a quad salchow. So far, Yuuri was only really comfortable with a quad toe loop, and though he could land a quad salchow in practice, he’d never been able to in competition.

      When the light through the high windows at the rink began to change, indicating the sun setting, Viktor waved Yuuri to come over to the boards with him. Yuuri had just come out of a quad flip, landing hard on his hip, and Viktor had pursed his lips and skated to the boards.

      “Viktor, _please_ let me do that again,” Yuuri said, wiping sweat off the side of his face.

      “ _Wow_ ,” Viktor didn’t look at him, leaning on the boards and busying himself with cleaning ice out of his skates. After a moment, he looked up at Yuuri and asked, “Hasn’t it been tens of thousands of times already?”

      “Um, just thirteen…” Yuuri said, biting his lip.

      Viktor chuckled, looking away from Yuuri again to clean ice out of the other skate. “I’ve thought this for some time now, but you have pretty good stamina.”

      Yuuri shrugged, feeling awkward. “Well, I don’t have much, but at least I do have that.”

      “You said you stress-eat before competitions, too, didn’t you?” Viktor said. He didn’t sound challenging, just like he was stating a simple fact. “You haven’t suffered any major injuries, and you’re younger than I am, too.”

      Whatever point Viktor was making his way to was abruptly derailed; Yuuri had, for a reason he really couldn’t explain even to himself, reached out and carded his fingers through Viktor’s sweat-damp hair, smoothing the whorl in the center of his part with his thumb. Viktor froze under Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri realized what he’d been doing. He jumped away, apologizing.

      “I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it; I don’t know what I was thinking—”

      “My hair’s getting that thin, huh?” Viktor asked softly.

      “No! Your hair isn’t thin, it’s great! Everything’s fine!” there was a small panic building for Yuuri, and it was audible in his voice. _What kind of insult have I just dealt him, oh fuck, why’d I do that?_

      Viktor sank to the ice in slow motion, slumping down dramatically with one hand extended out to Yuuri. “I’m hurt; I can’t recover from this blow…”

      Yuuri yelped and dropped to his knees (without thinking, cracking them loudly against the ice), and put a gloved hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Viktor, really. Please get up!”

      Viktor was as much a trickster as a dramatist, though. He took Yuuri’s arm from his shoulder and pulled, bringing Yuuri onto the ice next to him in a shocked heap. “There,” he said, sounding satisfied, “I don’t have to get up if you’re down here, too.”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say, rolling over onto his side to look at Viktor with wide eyes. But then Viktor was laughing, pushing Yuuri’s hair back like it had been when he skated against Yuri, and Yuuri was able to smile, too.

      They didn’t get much practice done after that. Viktor and Yuuri eventually got to their feet, but it was clear that Yuuri wasn’t focusing much on quads. Viktor was skating easy, languid loops to cool his muscles down, circling around Yuuri who kept going to attempt a jump and changing his mind at the last moment. He’d catch Viktor’s eye and blush furiously, and Viktor would beam every time like he’d just won a prize.

 

      Hours after Viktor had gone to bed, Yuuri got the email he’d been waiting for. The conservatory student had finished a rough mix of the reworked demo. In his excitement, Yuuri forgot that Viktor wasn’t a night owl like he was and all but ran down the hall to his room.

      “Viktor! It’s here!” he called as loud as he dared through the door.

      There was a sleepy sound from within, so Yuuri pushed the door open and crossed the room, stepping up onto the bed and straight onto Makkachin’s tail. Yuuri nearly dropped his laptop on Viktor in his haste to drop to his knees and apologize vehemently to the dog. In doing so, Yuuri was effectively on Viktor’s lap, straddling his legs. Viktor had more or less woken up properly because of this, sitting up and turning on the bedside light. He blinked at Yuuri, obviously waiting for more of an explanation. When he’d sat up, the covers slipped off of Viktor like water off a duck’s back, revealing skin that was bare, save for Viktor’s tattoos.

      “Uh, the girl who did the original demo – she just emailed me the new piece she did for me.” Yuuri stumbled over his words, staring at the tattoo in the middle of Viktor’s chest. It was a small sun with five rays, right between Viktor’s pectoral muscles, above the leaping animal. The sun was adjacent to a line of Cyrillic across Viktor’s right pec – Yuuri was no expert in reading Cyrillic letters, but was it written _backwards_ , with the letters mirrored?

      “Can I listen to it?” Viktor interrupted Yuuri’s musings, an amused smile quirking his lips. He spoke slowly, sleepily, dragging each word through his Russian accent in an effortless way that had Yuuri trying not to shiver.

      “Oh! Uh, yeah, of course…” Yuuri knew he was blushing as he passed the earbuds over to Viktor and pressed play on the laptop.

      Viktor had closed his eyes as the music started, but after the intro he slowly opened his eyes, meeting Yuuri’s gaze. He was smiling after the first minute, eyes still locked on Yuuri’s. “Yes, this is good. I love it, Yuuri, I think it’ll be perfect for you.”

      Yuuri felt just a touch overwhelmed; tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. It meant so much to him, to have Viktor’s support.

      “Are you done with this?” Viktor asked, taking the laptop from Yuuri’s hands. When Yuuri nodded, Viktor eased the lid closed and set the laptop and earbuds on his bedside table. He lay back down on his pillows, and Yuuri was once again reminded that he was on Viktor’s lap with Makkachin nestled into the crease behind his knee, fast asleep.

      “Uh,” Yuuri started, unsure of what to do.

      Viktor was reaching for the switch on the lamp. “Hmm?”

      “I – Makkachin’s asleep on my leg, I don’t want to wake him up – what should I…?”

      Viktor yawned and plucked Yuuri’s glasses from his nose, dropped them on top of the laptop, and grabbed Yuuri’s hands, pulling him onto his chest with a sigh. “You’ll just stay here,” he said as if it was obvious.

      Yuuri wanted to protest, wanted to explain that he couldn’t _possibly_ – but in that moment, he couldn’t find a proper excuse not to settle down against Viktor. His eyes were wide in the darkness when Viktor did turn the light out, and he knew Viktor could feel how tense he was. Viktor didn’t say anything, just ran a hand soothingly down Yuuri’s back, shifting his own hips to tip Yuuri off of him, just a little. Yuuri was still halfway on Viktor’s chest and halfway off with his hip on the mattress, their legs tangled together innocently, and Viktor still held one of his hands. But with the other hand, Viktor was trailing his fingers up and down Yuuri’s back, and Yuuri felt himself relaxing in spite of himself.

      In a voice so quiet it could be a simple exhale, Viktor said, “Good night, Cчастье.”

 

      Viktor was someone who enjoyed waking up early. He liked to watch the color of the sky change from dark gray to pink to blue; he liked the quiet of dawn. When he had been using, there were many nights that he would see the colors change before even going to bed; there were other nights that he didn’t know if he’d wake up to see the dawn light again – and he hadn’t cared. This morning, he wasn’t alone. Yuuri was the opposite of Viktor, from what he could tell – he was someone who stayed up late and slept the mornings away. This morning was no different; Yuuri hadn’t moved much in his sleep, and still had a hand curled on Viktor’s chest, his cheek smushed against the mattress by Viktor’s shoulder. Makkachin had relocated from between Viktor and the edge of the bed to curl up between Viktor and Yuuri’s legs, touching both of them. Viktor had the peculiar sensation of his heart swelling in his chest – _Katsuki Yuuri_ was in his bed, asleep and as sweet and vulnerable as Viktor had seen him since Yuuri danced on him drunk and asked Viktor to come to Japan to coach him. Viktor wanted to reach out and brush the hair from Yuuri’s eyes, but he was afraid of waking him.

      So instead, he watched Yuuri sleeping – followed the curve of his round face with his eyes, the dark, feathery lashes like Viktor had always longed to have as his own. Yuuri’s mouth was open just slightly, his lips full and plush – Viktor felt like kissing him, thought he knew what it would feel like, but didn’t dare try. He had a recurring dream of kissing Yuuri in the hallway, a dream that had stuck in his mind for weeks now, and it was so lifelike that Viktor just _knew_ how soft Yuuri’s mouth would be against his own.

      Yuuri’s fingers fluttered in his sleep, ghosting as delicate as flower petals falling against the skin of Viktor’s chest. Viktor looked down at Yuuri’s lovely, wide and soft hand and realized with a start that it was sitting right over the tattoo that read ‘пусть любовь в’, mirrored so it could be read in his reflection. _Let love in._ It made a lump rise in Viktor’s throat. Oh, how he wanted to do just that – but what of _Yuuri’s_ feelings?

 

      When Yuuri woke up, it was just him and Makkachin in the big bed. His first instinct was to panic, but Makkachin crawled up the bed to flop on Yuuri’s chest, and so instead he scratched the poodle’s ears and stared wonderingly up at the ceiling. _So I slept the night in Viktor Nikiforov’s bed. Wow_.

 

⋆

 

      The next few days were a densely packed cycle of skating at the rink, off-ice training in Ice Castle’s gym and the garden behind Yu-topia, and Yuuri awkwardly excusing himself from soaking in the onsen with Viktor. The koi was nearly healed, so in theory Yuuri could join Viktor – but he didn’t know how to broach the subject of his obviously yakuza irezumi tattoo. Now, there was even more on the line to Yuuri – now that he’d had a taste of the simple closeness Viktor was always asking for, he didn’t want to be far away from him at all.

      Yuuri was constantly struggling between the desire to soak up as much of Viktor’s attention as he could and wanting to distance himself so it wouldn’t be so painful when Viktor finally realized that Yuuri was involved with the yakuza.

      At Ice Castle, Nishigori and Yuuko would look between the more open, casual affection between Yuuri and Viktor that had started happening seemingly on its own with knowing smirks. Yuuri found he didn’t blush as much when he caught their implications, because a large part of him wanted what his friends thought they saw to be true.

      “If you want more impact, maybe your last jump can be a quadruple toe loop?” Viktor said, his voice picking up in the end, making the statement into a question. He and Yuuri were standing hip-to-hip, leaning on the boards and looking at a notebook in Viktor’s hand where he’d written out the free skate program so far.

      “For the last one?” Yuuri asked. Viktor was impressed with Yuuri’s stamina and always wanted to find ways to show it off, but that would be tricky all the same.

      Confirming Yuuri’s thoughts, Viktor nodded and said, “With your stamina, I think you can pull it off.” He bumped his shoulder against Yuuri’s, leaning in with a raised eyebrow – a challenge. “Or if you’d rather _not_ …”

      Yuuri bumped Viktor’s shoulder back, biting the words from the air by Viktor’s chin. “I’ll do it!”

      Viktor smiled – this was obviously the response he’d wanted. He touched Yuuri’s hand to lead him down along the boards a little, to the gate onto the rink. As he was shrugging his jacket off (and Yuuri was trying not to get lost in the neat cords of muscle in Viktor’s arms), he said, “Oh, Yuuri, I’d been meaning to ask – did you change the music’s theme?”

      “Oh, um,” Yuuri started, looking down at the choreography Viktor had handed him. It was now or never, right? “Yeah, the theme now is ‘on my love’.”

      Viktor didn’t say anything for a moment, looking across the distance between them with obvious surprise. But then his face became one of determination, and he lifted his chin. “That’s the best theme there is.” Yuuri couldn’t keep the relief and excitement off his face as Viktor continued, “It’s perfect. Now let’s finish this skate.”

      “Of course.”

 

⋆

 

      There was a party two nights later. The Grand Prix assignments had been posted, and Yuuri’s family, Minako, the Nishigoris, Nobunaga, Yamamoto, and Viktor, of course, were celebrating. Yuuri was stiff, with everyone congratulating him and celebrating around him. He hadn’t won anything, not yet. _It’ll be so embarrassing if this goes as poorly as last year,_ Yuuri thought, doing his best to fake a convincing smile. Makkachin sat with his front legs and head in Yuuri’s lap, like he was protecting Yuuri from the obvious waves of anxiety rolling off of him.

      Viktor had the Nishigori triplets helping him, as they all shared the same penchant for drama and attention. They stood in front of the other guests like they were presenting a game show prize.

      Axel explained, “There are six qualifying competitions before the Grand Prix Final: in order, Skate America, Skate Canada, the Cup of China, NHK Trophy, Trophee de France, and the Rostelecom Cup.”

      “The first event Yuuri has been assigned to is the third that will be held, the Cup of China.” Viktor said.

      “Yuuri’s former coach and his former rink mate Phichit will also be competing there, representing Thailand!” Lutz chimed in.

      Yuuri smiled properly, feeling a shade of excitement. It would be great to see Phichit again, and to watch him skate. Phichit was only twenty, and his skating was catching up to Yuuri’s fast.

      Loop continued, “The second event Yuuri will compete in is the Rostelecom Cup in Russia! He’ll be skating against his rival, Yuri Plisetsky!”

      Yuuri couldn’t get as excited at that as he was about seeing Phichit in China. In general, the assignments felt like they were missing something. _So I’m going to be facing Yurio before the final,_ Yuuri thought, pursing his lips. He was kept from brooding further by catching sight of the dirty look Nobunaga was giving Mari, who had produced a fan with Yuri’s face on it and was chanting, “ _Davai_ , Yurio!”

      Viktor knelt down next to Yuuri to look Makkachin in the eyes. “And you’ll be minding the house this season, Makkachin,” Viktor told his dog, laughing a little when Makkachin whined a little and licked his cheek.

      With a start, Yuuri realized that part of why the assignments seemed so strange to him was that it was his first time going to a Grand Prix without Viktor in the lineup.

      Nishigori was leaning on the counter, looking down at Yuuri. He was apparently thinking something similar. “I bet you’ll show up with Viktor as your coach and they’ll all think you stole him from figure skating.”

      Yuuko didn’t look at Yuuri, instead raising her eyebrows at her husband. “I hope they won’t hate him for it,” she looked over at Yuuri and saw the clear panic on his face. Viktor, sitting close enough to feel Yuuri tense, put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him a little closer to him.

      “Oh, Yuuri-kun! You know we’re on your side!” Yuuko said, looking chagrinned.

      “Hell yeah, we are,” Minako laughed, shaking out a banner she’d made with Yuuri’s name in kanji with a handful of exclamation points on it. “I’m going to come along this year to cheer you on! First, the Cup of China!”

      The triplets exchanged glances. For six-year-olds, they were startlingly astute. “Huh?”

      “Yuuri, last year…”

      “In the Nationals…”

      Yuuri could feel all of their eyes on him, and he couldn’t look anyone in the face. “I messed up my prep. I think I finished eleventh.”

      “So… you’ll have to compete in the block championships,” finished Nishigori.

      Viktor leaned into Yuuri. He didn’t look upset by this news, but probably because the next thing out of his mouth was, “What?”

      Yuuri looked away from Viktor. “Uh, we’re talking about domestic competitions.”

      Viktor still didn’t look perturbed. He shrugged and squeezed Yuuri’s shoulder. “So you’ll work your way up from the qualifying competitions. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble there.”

      “The qualifying competition is the Chu-Shikoku-Kyushu Regional Championship in September,” Yuuko said, looking at it on her phone.

      Yamamoto leaned into the conversation for the first time that night, raising his eyebrows at Yuuri. In Japanese, he asked, “Will you be needing any kind of support from Fukuyama-san there?”

      Yuuri bit his lip, considering. He wasn’t really a known ninkyō dantai member throughout Kyushu – only in parts of his prefecture, really – so there was no reason to think there would be any kind of complications that might arise from being at a regional event. “I think we should be alright, Yamamoto-san, but thank you.”

      Yamamoto didn’t look entirely as at ease with the situation. “You know the activities designated boryokudan are prone to in the greater Kyushu area, Yuuri-kun, _especially_ when they think they can manipulate a foreigner.”

      Yuuri bowed his head, acknowledging this. Next to him, Viktor was still, as if trying to figure out the Japanese being spoken around him. Everyone else had fallen silent, though they understood this was not their conversation to be involved in.

      Clearing his throat, Yuuri said to Yamamoto, “If Fukuyama-san should think it prudent to send some sort of support, I would be grateful. I do not want to burden the ninkyō dantai, though, Yamamoto-san. Thank you.”

      It was probably Yuuri’s imagination, but he thought Viktor drew a sharp breath at that. He didn’t have much time to think about that, what it might mean, before Yuuko was loudly saying – in English, for Viktor’s ears – “This will be Yuuri-kun’s comeback season!”

      Nishigori patted Yuuri on the back with enough force that he might’ve tipped forward into the table if Viktor hadn’t still had an arm around him. “Yeah, Yuuri will breeze through it like it’s nothing!”

      The triplets were crawling over Viktor and Makkachin to stare up at Yuuri with their small, dark eyes glinting mischievously. “But Minami-kun from Fukuoka will be competing!” they chimed up at Yuuri and their father alike.

      Viktor, who had been wearing a small frown, made a little more of a dissatisfied face.

      “Yeah, Minami-kun beat Yuuri last year!” Axel added, giving Viktor a sideways glance. “Minami Kenjiro from Kyushu, said to be number one among young skaters!”

      Yuuri felt a headache brewing behind his eyes. _Right, it’s been more than six months since I thought my career was done for… I guess things have changed. Am I even considered a ‘young skater’ anymore? Probably not._

      Toshiya was sitting between Hiroko and Yamamoto, smiling at Yuuri. “This is good, though,” he said to his son. “We’ll all cheer you on just like we did last year. Good luck, son!”

      “Dad…” Yuuri began, feeling overwhelmed. Viktor was rubbing gentle circles into Yuuri’s shoulder, grounding him.

      “ _And_ we can use this opportunity to make money,” Toshiya continued, elbowing Yamamoto. They both laughed over Yuuri’s sharper repetition of, “ _Dad_.”

      Hiroko was smiling, looking between Toshiya and Yamamoto and Yuuri. “You’ll autograph a sign, at least, won’t you?”

      Yuuri sighed like it was an ordeal, but ended up smiling in spite of himself. _Until now, I’ve felt like I was fighting alone for this season. But with Viktor here, everything’s totally changed. Some things have stayed the same, but everything feels brand new. I may never regain what I’ve lost, but I can see clearly what’s in front of me now._

      When the party finally ended (thankfully without Yamamoto wanting to discuss the ninkyō dantai in front of Viktor, in Japanese or not), Viktor and Yuuri climbed the stairs to their rooms together, and Yuuri made a decision. He said good night to Viktor in the hall between their rooms, and they went their separate ways.

      Makkachin, sensing the turmoil Viktor was feeling, didn’t follow Yuuri like he’d done every other day the last week. Viktor was glad for this; it wasn’t that he was feeling self-destructive, but he wasn’t keen on being alone. He didn’t know a lot of Japanese, and would be the first to admit that. But he did have a duolingo app on his phone, could speak enough oddly-accented Japanese to get by with shop owners without Yuuri, and had had a crash course in words to recognize by the sixes Yakov had at the Kremlin. That crash course had been years ago, but Viktor remembered enough to have a headache throbbing behind his eyes.

 _That old man was talking to Yuuri about Fukuoka and mentioned the yakuza, I’m sure of it,_ Viktor thought as he carelessly stripped out of the bright shirt he’d worn for the party. _And when they mentioned the yakuza, it wasn’t by the name the Japanese government urges law enforcement and citizens to use – it was the name the yakuza members use amongst themselves, ‘ninkyō dantai’. And_ Yuuri _had been the one to say it._ It made Viktor’s head swim. He’d seen the tattoos on some of the men who’d come to play cards – but he’d just assumed that it was a more progressive area for tattoo acceptance, that maybe the intel he’d been given by the security group had been wrong. After all, Viktor had been allowed into the hot springs without issue, even with his coat of tattoos.

      Which raised another concern – if Yuuri was yakuza, did he recognize Viktor’s tattoos as bratva? Surely if he did, Yuuri would’ve let the rest of his yakuza know. And so far, no one had dragged Viktor to a back alley to exercise famous yakuza intimidation techniques. Viktor adored him, but he didn’t think Yuuri was in any sort of position to be making big decisions. Right, which was a whole other issue – Viktor was completely _gone_ on Yuuri. Of course, he had been from the very start. In his mind, he could hear Yakov chastising him, ‘Who do you think you are? You can’t fly halfway around the world to find the drunk boy who was grinding on you at the banquet! I don’t care if he pole danced, too, that’s not what your priority should be!’ and Viktor had shrugged his coach’s concerns aside, because he’d been at death’s door before and he’d come back, all the way to a hero status, and gods don’t trouble themselves with the opinions of mortals. But now it was Viktor who was feeling his mortality, deep in his bones.

      He didn’t want to feel, he didn’t want to be conscious right now – and he was really, really itching for a cigarette.

      Viktor had already stripped out of his jeans; now he was pacing back across his room in nothing but his briefs to find where he’d left them on the floor. In the pocket was a battered lighter, more yellow than white now. Viktor carried it every day, always in his pocket to remind him of the choice he made every day not to smoke. It had been since his first season back skating that he’d quit smoking. Yakov had pulled him aside and warned him that any hopes of continuing with his career would be dashed if he couldn’t catch his breath after doing simple compulsory figures. But now, Viktor was more frazzled and on edge than he’d been in a long time. And he knew Mari Katsuki smoked; maybe she wouldn’t mind bumming him a smoke, maybe she wouldn’t ask questions. Drumming up the courage to go ahead and break the years of not smoking, Viktor flipped the lighter on and off, on and off.

      Makkachin had been sitting on the bed, watching Viktor pace around the room in agitation. Now, Makkachin was whining loudly, either because he wanted attention or because he remembered the acrid cigarette smoke that seemed to follow that little orange flame around. It made guilt flare in Viktor’s stomach, upsetting Makkachin, but he couldn’t decide if the guilt was enough to add to the self-pity and agitation to push him towards smoking or if he should just go to bed. His decision, in the end, was made for him.

      There was a knock at Viktor’s door, and he almost dropped the lighter in surprise. The walls and door of his room, of course, were a thin traditional type, and he could just make out the silhouette. And anyway, there was really only one person Viktor could think of who’d come by his room.

      “Yes?” he said softly, surprised at how hoarse he sounded. Was he really that upset?

      And then Yuuri was sliding open the door to Viktor’s room. He looked vulnerable, small, in his baggy shirt and shorts. For a moment he didn’t say anything, and Viktor felt a flicker of uncertainty. Was Yuuri here to explain the conversation that had taken place in front of Viktor at the party – did he even realize that Viktor knew something was up? Or was it something else that brought Yuuri to his room this late at night?

      “I –” Yuuri started, stopping just as abruptly, biting his lip. He slowly stepped inside the room and slid the door shut behind him. “I don’t even know how to phrase this,” he said finally, eyes fixed at a point below Viktor’s chin. With a start, Viktor remembered he was only in his skivvies – and for the first time, he was unsure about showing skin in front of Yuuri.

      “Well, why don’t you try? Saying whatever it is you’re trying to say?” Viktor asked, stomach swooping, hoping he didn’t sound as confrontational as he was afraid he did. Even if Yuuri was some kind of gang member, he was still, well, _Yuuri_ , wasn’t he? And Viktor really, _really_ liked him. He sat down on the bed, narrowly missing Makkachin’s legs, and waited for Yuuri to speak.

      Yuuri walked closer, delicately, like he was walking on eggshells. When he was in front of Viktor, he knelt, hands clasped on his knees. Viktor could see that Yuuri’s hands were shaking and, without really thinking, he reached for them.

      “Why do you have a lighter?” Yuuri asked abruptly, his voice sounding completely different. Viktor looked down and, sure enough, the dirty old lighter was still in one of the hands he’d tried to take Yuuri’s in.

      “You know, that’s a good question,” Viktor said, a humorless smile taking his lips. What had he been _thinking_ , about to throw away five years of not smoking just because he was agitated? “I _wasn’t_ thinking. But now, my head feels clearer.”

      Viktor flopped backwards on the bed (again, nearly landing on Makkachin, who’d fallen asleep) and stretched across the bed to toss the lighter onto the cluttered bedside table. When he sat back up, Yuuri was looking at Viktor’s tattoos again, namely the one lowest on Viktor’s torso, the hand holding a rose, all wrapped in barbed wire, that sat between his hips on the right side, extending down below his waistband. His eyes hadn’t even dropped to the long, raised scar down Viktor’s femur.

      “Uh, Yuuri?” Viktor asked, clearing his throat. Yuuri’s cheeks turned pink, and for a moment all Viktor could think of was the overwhelming affection he had towards him.

      “Right, uh,” Yuuri started again. “Well, you’re always asking if we can share a bed, and I just – I was thinking –”

      Oh. _Oh_. Viktor smiled wider than he had all night, and butterflies exploded through his stomach. “Oh, of course. Yeah, yes, please, come on.”

      He scooted back on the bed to make space for Yuuri to crawl up next to him. Yuuri did just that, blushing profusely.

      “I didn’t know how to ask, it felt so strange,” Yuuri was saying with laughter in his voice, sitting awkwardly next to where Viktor was lying back on the pillows.

      Viktor smiled at him, his heart aching. How could someone be this innocent, or seem so? _Especially when I’ve_ seen _what he can do with Christophe Giacometti on a pole, fucking hell,_ Viktor added mentally. To Yuuri, he only chuckled, breathy and exhilarated though all they were doing was _sitting_ on the damn bed, clothed and without any other pretext. “I’m really glad you decided to come over here, though.”

      Yuuri was blushing, smiling and looking at Viktor through his perfect, feathery eyelashes.

      “Come here,” Viktor said, just a whisper, reaching out to pull Yuuri down onto the pillows. Yuuri let himself be laid down before scooting closer to Viktor so their bodies were flush, hip to hip, Viktor on his back and Yuuri having rolled onto his stomach. Viktor couldn’t help but chuckle, pulling one of the blankets out from under Yuuri to drape halfway over him, and Yuuri laughed, too.

      “Are you comfortable? Can I turn the light out?” Viktor asked.

      Yuuri nodded sleepily, pulling his glasses off and handing them to Viktor to set aside on the table. Viktor smiled back, though he wasn’t sure how clearly Yuuri could see him without his glasses, and had moved to pull the light switch off when he realized he hadn’t even brushed his teeth, let alone taken his makeup off or washed his face.

      “Ah, Yuuri? I’ve just remembered I need to brush my teeth –”

      Yuuri waved Viktor away. He yawned, “Well, go do that, it’s important. Do you want me to stay awake?”

      “You mean you’re actually going to fall asleep before me?” Viktor teased.

      “I don’t know, I’m really comfortable. And happy.”

      The last part was mumbled into a pillow and subsequently indistinct, but it set Viktor’s heart aflutter all the same. In the bathroom, Viktor studied his reflection. _What does Yuuri see in me? What does he see when he sees himself? Does he see how much greater than me he can be? Can he see how much I adore him?_ Without foundation covering it, Viktor could see the uneven coloration on his cheeks from acne in his youth (and occasionally now, when he was stressed). His eyes looked tired and sad, but there was really no need to think about why. And there were his tattoos – in particular, the one done so he could read it in a mirror. пусть любовь в.

 

      Yuuri had watched Viktor’s blurry form slip through the doors. Even though he knew Viktor was coming back to him – to share a bed, he was going to _share a bed_ with Viktor – there was a stab of emptiness in his stomach. _I don’t know how long Viktor will stick around, or how long my body will hold up to keep skating. So please, God, give me Viktor’s time, if only just for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'let love in' tattoo is based directly on Frank Iero's neck tattoo, which I realized doesn't have really any clear photo representation, so I threw together [some grainy screengrabs](http://keepthefrank.tumblr.com/post/173426787144) and stuck them on my personal tumblr for you guys to use as a reference   
> Thank you as always for reading :) let me know what you think!! I'm sorry my posting schedule isn't set, but I love the next few chapters and I'm looking forward to sharing them sooner rather than later... and like,, get ready because bedsharing is one of my favorite tropes of all time lol


	7. Push/Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor's Coaching Debut At The Japanese Regional Competition, aka _Katsuki Yuuri May Be Anxious But He Does What The Fuck He Wants_
> 
> more skating talk than mafia talk, plus lots of Yuuri and Viktor's dynamic slowly shifting and bringing them closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi, Minami...  
> Yuuri's really hard on himself, and his narrative reflects that! There's lots of talk about his anxiety in this chapter, so if that's something that makes you feel uncomfortable, please be aware.  
> While you're reading, you can check out the short playlists for [Yuuri](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/katsuki-yuuri-btsats) and [Viktor](https://8tracks.com/deathbyblondie/viktor-nikiforov-btsats)!

      In the little more than a month leading up to the Chu-Shikoku-Kyushu regional competition, Yuuri and Viktor fell into a routine. Viktor would wake before Yuuri like he had been all summer, fumble his way through making breakfast (usually Hiroko would take pity and step in, and on more than one occasion Mari made him coffee, rolling her eyes and muttering about Viktor’s apparent lack of life experience the whole time), and relax. Often, Viktor would take one of the many books he’d had sent over from his St. Petersburg apartment and walk down to the beach. Before Yuuri started sharing Viktor’s bed, Makkachin would come with Viktor. Now, the poodle would crawl from the foot of the bed to the warm place Viktor would leave beside Yuuri.

      Yuuri would wake sometime before nine-thirty and sneak back to his room, as if the whole household didn’t already know he’d been sleeping in Viktor’s room. Yuuri would dress and stretch there, go downstairs to grab his backpack and a smoothie from the kitchen (sometimes Viktor would try his hand at making Yuuri’s breakfast smoothies… it didn’t always go to plan, but was endearing all the same) and start for Ice Castle where Viktor, by that time, had already arrived.

      Yuuri could run the several miles between Yu-topia and Ice Castle Hasetsu now without getting winded; he was proud of the progress he’d made. Before skating, Yuuri would go through another routine cycle of stretches, and Viktor was the one who aided him now, instead of Nishigori or Yuuko. More and more, Yuuri was becoming comfortable with the way Viktor would sometimes wrap his arms around Yuuri and lean on him, complaining about being tired that morning or that Makkachin hadn’t even watched Viktor leave the bedroom that morning. At first, Yuuri would freeze under Viktor’s lingering touch. But as the days went on, Yuuri began to relax, even lean back into the contact.

      And then, when they’d both stretched and wasted a fair amount of time flirting and getting awkward and flustered, it was off to the ice with them. Some mornings were for _Eros_ and some were for the free skate Yuuri had decided to call “Yūri on Ice”. Viktor was an interesting coach; he was either heavy-handed with criticism (and subsequently confused when Yuuri would get upset), or enthusiastic enough that he’d mimic Yuuri’s choreography, apparently without knowing it. Yuuri had broken into laughter on multiple occasions when he’d seen Viktor’s bright, platinum head bob from a jump he’d done in sync with Yuuri from off the ice.

      If they’d spent the morning skating, the afternoons were for off-ice training in Ice Castle’s gym, or traveling the short distance to the Hasetsu Castle where Yuuri would jog up and down the seemingly endless steps. Yuuri was comfortable enough to tease Viktor, who would get out of breath jogging up the steps a single time to the top, where he’d sit and time Yuuri for the rest of the work out. Yuuri was perhaps in the best shape he’d ever been in – at least, he was healthy, the proper size for skating, and felt great, too. No one said anything to him, but behind his back, Hiroko and Toshiya whispered about how long it had been since they’d seen Yuuri so happy. Minako and Mari, on the other hand, had more explicit jokes they told in explanation of Yuuri’s sunny mood.

      In the evenings, Viktor would walk the bike and he and Yuuri would make their way home, hands brushing but never quite clasping together. There were many things Yuuri found himself on the brink of saying: commenting on the way the sunset would reflect in Viktor’s platinum hair, making him pink or rosy orange or glittering gold; asking about the tattoos that would sometimes peek out through the boat-necks of some of Viktor’s shirts; teasing about how Viktor was a living legend who’d resigned himself to a life of leisure with startling aptitude. Though Yuuri never said these things, he wondered if Viktor couldn’t already read them in his face.

      Nearly every night, Viktor asked Yuuri to join him in the hot spring, though Yuuri always declined.

      Viktor had many friends and admirers by this time in Hasetsu. He was still a larger than life presence to many of the locals. And even more pleasantly surprising than the fact that Viktor was still living in the small town was his seemingly boundless generosity and charm. He went out of his way to visit local shops and greet everyone he saw with a heart-shaped grin and badly accented Japanese. There were usually small crowds of people every evening to buy dinner and sit as close to Viktor as they could. (Hiroko naturally used this opportunity to talk her son’s career up, to which Viktor emphatically contributed.) Yamamoto joked on more than one occasion to Yuuri that they might as well bring Viktor into the ninkyō dantai for all the benefit he’d done the community. Yuuri always smiled genially, but deep down, this sparked a flicker of anxiety. If Viktor _wasn’t_ bratva, Yuuri had no intention at all of getting his shining star of a coach involved in the life of a crime syndicate – and if he was, Yuuri didn’t want Viktor in increased danger.

      No matter what, though, every night Yuuri returned to Viktor’s bedroom. The first few nights, he’d hovered nervously in the doorway, waiting for Viktor to invite him in.

      “Yuuri, you’re always welcome. Really, I promise. I _want_ you here with me,” Viktor said one night after the first week, taking Yuuri’s hands in his and holding them against his heart.

      Yuuri had to look away from Viktor, fighting the urge to cry – it was like a crazy dream, having Viktor so close and so openly affectionate. _Maybe he doesn’t know what it sounds like he’s saying,_ Yuuri tried to reason with himself, tried to deflate his own affection. But he smiled to himself all the same, and it wasn’t long before one of the pillows from his bed came to stay on one side of Viktor’s bed, the side Viktor called _Yuuri’s_.

      Sometimes, when Yuuri had gotten himself worked up from some random comment online or an errant thought, he’d lie far away from Viktor on the bed, arms and legs rigid, staring up at the ceiling. At first, Viktor didn’t know what to do – should he call Hiroko or Mari, ask one of them? The one time he asked Yuuri if that would be something helpful, though, Yuuri had vehemently shaken his head.

      “What can I do, then?” Viktor had asked, his tone pleading.

      Yuuri bit his lip and looked away, mumbled his answer.

      Viktor had scooted closer on the bed, nudging Makkachin out of the way. “Yuuri?”

      And with the sudden intensity of a breaking dam, Yuuri had silently folded himself into Viktor’s arms. They’d fallen asleep that way, Viktor clutching Yuuri to him as Yuuri’s tense muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed. It grounded Viktor, too, more than he could admit. In the light of day neither mentioned these moments, but as the days passed Yuuri saw Viktor more and more as a person, one he could love for his faults more than adore as a flawless idol. Viktor snored when he fell asleep at a certain angle. When Yuuri mentioned this to him one morning, Viktor had put his head on Yuuri’s shoulder to whisper in his ear that Yuuri talked in his sleep. It became comfortingly normal for Viktor to fall asleep reading some stuffy classic novel in bed next to Yuuri, who kept his night owlish ways and was often up until the wee hours of the night online.

 

⋆

 

      It was with this startling domesticity that Viktor and Yuuri together prepared and finally arrived in the Fukuoka Prefecture for the regional Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship. It was very early when they arrived at the rink, but Yuuri already had plenty on his mind. It helped, though, that he was more or less Viktor’s guide. It had been many years since Viktor had had to go through regional qualifiers to earn a place in national competitions – and he’d naturally never seen the Japanese block championships. Though many may not have seen the beauty in early mornings and austere, aging ice rinks, Viktor was as excited as a child on holiday.

      Yuuri was the oldest of the four competitors – he was up against two seventeen year olds, one of whom had been the one to beat him the year before, and an eighteen year old. Viktor waved aside Yuuri’s concern at this.

      “I’ve been one of the oldest skaters in Men’s Singles for a while; it doesn’t make a difference,” he said. Yuuri had the nasty compulsion to make a joke about Viktor’s age, but thankfully refrained. The last thing they needed was Viktor having a meltdown in the middle of Fukuoka. Viktor continued, “You just beat Yurio, and if you’re twenty-three, you’re eight years older than him. See? Age doesn’t matter.”

      “I guess so,” Yuuri finally said, looking up at Viktor’s smiling face. “I just hope I don’t draw the first skating position. I’d like to at least to see what I’m up against.” _And because if last year’s nationals was any indicator, first position is unlucky for me._

      Naturally, then, Yuuri ended up drawing the first position. Not everyone was as upset by this as Yuuri was, though. When he returned to his seat, one of the other skaters scooted closer to him with a smile wide enough to show off prominent canine teeth. The kid looked kind of like a real-life chibi character.

      “Ah, I got to see you draw the first spot in person again, Yuuri-kun!” he said, a look of fevered excitement in his eyes. “I love it!”

      Yuuri blinked, unsure of what to say. Was this some kind of joke? “Uh,” he started, just to be interrupted.

      “What, you don’t remember me?” the kid asked, bouncing closer. He wailed, “What a _shock_!”

      Thankfully, one of the skating officials stepped over then, asking the skater – who was addressed as Minami Kenjiro – to draw for his position. Yuuri was tempted to swear when Minami drew a placard with a clear ‘4’ marked on it.

      After they’d all chosen their skating positions, the skaters all dispersed to meet with their coaches and choreographers – and Yuuri was pulled over to a quiet section of the locker room to deal with a flock of reporters with Viktor. It had been odd enough, dealing with press around Hasetsu, but somehow it felt even weirder to have so much attention in Fukuoka. The few times Yuuri had been in the prefecture since his joining Fukuyama’s ninkyō dantai, he’d kept his head down and stayed away from being the center of attention. It was hard to focus on the questions being lobbed at him and Viktor when he was replaying the conversation he’d had more than a month ago with Yamamoto, turning down the offer of some kind of guard.

      “We’re planning his peak to be at the Grand Prix Final, so this isn’t any sort of issue,” Viktor was telling eager reporters. “He can take it easy today, maybe earn a personal best score.”

      Yuuri’s stomach took a drop at that. He pulled Viktor to the side a little and leaned in so his mouth was nearly on Viktor’s ear. “I’ve told you before, Viktor, many times, but at last year’s Nationals I basically bombed everything.” He hissed, holding tight to Viktor’s shoulder so he wouldn’t draw away. “Everyone wondered if I was ill or injured, but embarrassingly, nothing was physically wrong with me. I lost, despite being a top contender, because I was _mentally_ weak.”

      “Wow,” Viktor said in a normal speaking voice. Then he turned, pushing Yuuri’s shoulder into the lockers behind them and put his mouth to Yuuri’s ear, just as Yuuri had done to him. He’d smiled at Yuuri as he did so, but there was a fierce edge to Viktor’s voice as he whispered to Yuuri, “You’re not _weak_ , Yuuri. I haven’t told these people anything that’s not true or led them to think you’ll do something outside of your abilities. You are more than capable of winning this. We can talk more later, but now we’re doing the press, alright?”

      Yuuri didn’t say anything more, and they wordlessly returned to the place the camera men had staked out earlier to continue with being interviewed. No one said anything about what they’d just witnessed between skater and coach, but there were plenty of photos and speculations online about what had occurred.

      There was time later in the day for the skaters to practice. Viktor smiled at everyone in the rink like he did walking through town, and Yuuri was at least grateful that people weren’t staring at him, wondering what he was doing back skating after such a disastrous previous season.

      “I haven’t competed since last year’s Nationals,” Yuuri found himself trying to explain as he took the ice, facing Viktor on the other side of the boards. His hands were shaking.

      Viktor ignored him, holding up a tissue box with a cover of a plush poodle the same color as Makkachin. “Look! Makkachin’s cheering you on, too!”

      Yuuri couldn’t even return the smile Viktor gave him. He took a tissue and said, “Oh, yeah. That’s really cute.” He meant it, but that wasn’t clear in his voice. _I’ve been practicing with Viktor all summer, but I’m still so unsure about myself, my abilities._

      Viktor didn’t seem to upset by Yuuri’s lack of enthusiasm – though to be fair, he didn’t seem to understand the amount of turmoil Yuuri was feeling, either. “Try to be happier, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri tried to smile at Viktor, but it was more of a grimace. He was there to practice, though, so Yuuri pushed away from the boards and started working through Eros, which he’d be performing first. Unfortunately, he knew the program well enough that he was more or less on autopilot, even as he thought, _I have to figure out now if I’m actually good enough and in good enough shape to be in the Grand Prix series. The other skaters here don’t matter._

      Behind him, he could hear Minami’s coach chastising her skater. “Minami-kun, focus, okay? Focus! Remember how focused you were at Nationals, don’t get overwhelmed by the energy around you!”

 

      That evening, the rink was rapidly filling with spectators and Yuuri couldn’t find Viktor. Nishigori and Minako, though, had traveled to Fukuoka from Hasetsu and Yuuri spotted them while on his way to search the locker rooms.

      Foregoing a greeting, he dashed over asking, “Have you seen Viktor anywhere? The competition is about to start!”

      Minako was looking over Yuuri’s shoulder, her jaw slack, and Yuuri had to fight to maintain his (truly, already slipping) composure when he turned around. Viktor was walking over in a perfectly tailored black suit.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said with the air of someone who wasn’t sorry at all. His perfect platinum hair was tousled stylishly, flopping over his eyes like he was some sort of Gucci runway model.

      “ _Why_ did you change clothes?” Yuuri asked numbly, unable to look away from Viktor. He often looked at Viktor snoring in one of the inn’s jinbei or pouting over some classic novel’s plot (that he already _knew_ the outcome of) and wondered how he’d ever thought Viktor could be a member of a crime syndicate. Now, looking at Viktor, Yuuri was caught in the expensive lines of the suit, the way Viktor’s sharp features and pale eyes suddenly looked like they had the propensity to be quite dangerous. If Yuuri had seen someone looking like this while at school in Detroit, he’d have hauled his ass out of the way of what was sure to be some sort of mafia throwdown.

      Viktor smiled at Yuuri, turning soft before his eyes. “Today is my _glorious_ debut as a coach, so I should be in formal dress.” He leaned closer to whisper to Yuuri over the excited shrieks of the women around them, “After all, _you’re_ dressed quite nicely, too.”

      Yuuri chose to disregard the last quip, pressing his palms over his face. How could he have forgotten? His skate today would serve not only as his comeback but as testament to Viktor’s power as a coach as well as a skater.

      There was the announcement for the skaters to move to the rink for a warmup. Viktor trailed after Yuuri, oblivious to the flurry of emotions Yuuri was feeling. Yuuri couldn’t even look at Viktor, afraid that if he did the world would somehow disappear like a rug pulled from under his feet. Even as Yuuri stood at the boards pulling his skateguards off, though, Viktor was hovering behind him with an excited grin.

      “As your coach, should I say anything before sending you off to skate your program?” Viktor asked. Yuuri finally looked over at Viktor, but only to pass him his skateguards. Viktor had had his hands clasped under his chin, and Yuuri noticed the sleek black leather gloves Viktor wore. _The kind not to leave fingerprints or to protect from gunshot residue?_ Yuuri wondered in spite of himself. He didn’t answer Viktor, really didn’t acknowledge that he’d spoken at all, and stepped onto the ice.

      Viktor was still saying, “Right now, I was thinking maybe…”

      Yuuri kept his head down as he skated out to loop around the rink, leaving Viktor mid-sentence. _Right now, my goal is to reach the Grand Prix Final. I can’t get nervous over this, but I need to focus – this is no time to get worked up about the ways Viktor could be part of the fucking Russian mafia._

      The warm up ended after six minutes, but Yuuri stayed on the ice. He was almost hesitant to return to lean over the boards where Viktor was waiting for him. He didn’t look up to see Viktor’s face until he’d grabbed his water and was taking a drink. What he saw there almost made him choke, though – Viktor looked irritated, his mouth pressed into a line. Yuuri tried to take a deep breath, but it still made his stomach feel queasy _. Why’s Viktor getting all prickly now?_

      “Yuuri, turn around.” Viktor said suddenly.

      There wasn’t long now until Yuuri’s skate would start – what was Viktor playing at? “Huh?”

      Viktor leaned forward a little, his eyebrows drawn into a deep _v_. There was definitely an edge to his accented voice when he repeated, “ _Turn around_.”

      Startled, Yuuri turned to face away from Viktor, his butt against the boards between them. “Uh, like this?”

      Instead of verbally answering Yuuri, though, Viktor flung his arms around him, pressing his face into the side of Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri stiffened with surprise. The position they were in wasn’t unlike how Viktor would comfort Yuuri in particularly agitated moments when they were in bed, but he hadn’t expected this – and judging from the flashbulbs erupting around them, neither had anyone else. Yuuri could feel Viktor’s mouth move against his neck, and then Viktor was raising his head so that he could speak right into Yuuri’s ear.

      His voice low and husky, Viktor said, “I want you to seduce me with all you have. If you can charm me, you can enthrall the audience. That’s what I tell you in practice, right?”

      Yuuri was inexplicably out of breath. From the way Viktor had his arms across Yuuri’s chest, surely he could feel the runaway pace of Yuuri’s heartbeat. He found his words enough to stutter, “Right,”

      And then it was time for the skate to start. Viktor let go of Yuuri, who handed him his water bottle and skated out to the center of the ice, settling into his starting pose. _It’s like Viktor said_ , Yuuri told himself, _this is just like practice_. The music began, and Yuuri ran his hands over his body like the choreography was written. _I’m going to become a beautiful katsudon bowl_! But it wasn’t with katsudon in mind that Yuuri’s eyes found Viktor’s across the ice, and he smirked. Maybe it was the cool air coming off the ice, but Viktor’s cheeks looked pink. It was with that in mind that Yuuri pushed off into the first movement.

      He was almost thrown off by the lack of a reaction he was getting from the crowd. At Onsen on Ice, the reception from the crowd had been enthusiastic – this was nothing but lukewarm. _No_ , Yuuri thought, _it’s not important. But I bet Viktor will like this step sequence_ … Viktor always told Yuuri in practice to dance like he was trying to seduce him. _Right_ , Yuuri thought, smiling. _I’m a katsudon fatale who enthralls all men!_ The first jump of the program was up, the spread eagle into a triple axel Viktor had chastised Yuuri over after Onsen on Ice.

      After the axel, the crowd seemed more invested in his program. Of course, then he over-rotated and touched down on the quad sal. Yuuri tried not to focus on that, though. The program wasn’t over yet, which meant there was still plenty of time to seduce Viktor. The quad-triple toe turned into a quad-double. Yuuri swore mentally.

      By the time the short program was done, though, the audience was cheering. From the boards, Yuuri heard Minami yell, “That was so _cool_ , Yuuri-kun! It was awesome!”

      Yuuri looked up at that, but it wasn’t Minami he cared about – it was Viktor. What would he have to say about the mistakes Yuuri had made? Would he say Yuuri hadn’t succeeded in seducing him? From the carefully impassive face Viktor had on, applauding quietly by the gate, Yuuri hadn’t. Silently, Viktor handed Yuuri his skateguards and scooped the Makkachin-cover tissue box under his arm.

      “The first part was great,” Viktor began, and Yuuri steeled himself for the harsh critique that was sure to follow. “The second half was a mess, though. You were too focused on your jumps, and the performance got sloppy.”

      “Right,” Yuuri said, trying not to roll his eyes. He thought it hadn’t been too bad of a skate.

      “I don’t _like_ that kind of thing, you know?” Viktor said, showing no sign of slowing down.

      Yuuri tried not to make faces as he and Viktor began slipping through the gathering crowd to the Kiss And Cry. Before they got there, though, one of the announcers came over the speakers. “Scores for Katsuki Yuuri, please… his short program score: 94.36. He is currently in first place.”

      Yuuri thought he could pick out Minako and Nishigori’s cheers from the eruption of applause in the rink. Viktor looked as surprised as Yuuri felt as Morooka appeared with his microphone. “While this won’t be an official record, this would have been among the top ten scores in the world!”

      Yuuri flushed and grinned. When he was able to get away from the crowds and return to Viktor outside the locker room, though, Viktor still didn’t look as pleased as Yuuri had expected him to.

      With a sigh, he said, “Since you weren’t under pressure, I thought your score would be in the hundreds.”

      Yuuri kept his face a mask of calm, even though agitation was flaring through him enough that he could feel his jaw muscles twitching. In a forcefully even tone, he said, “Right, Viktor, you thought I’d score over a hundred points and break the world record a couple times over.”

      Viktor either didn’t notice the irritation Yuuri thought was obvious or didn’t care. “Right, Yuuri, about tomorrow’s free skate,”

      Yuuri clamped his jaw shut. _Here it comes_ , he thought.

      Viktor brandished the poodle plush like it could lessen the blow of his words. “Lower the difficulty of the jumps and just focus on the performance.”

      “ _What_?”

      “You’ve never nailed all of them in practice, have you?”

      “But –” Yuuri leaned closer to Viktor. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

      Viktor leaned in, too, and Yuuri was forced to take a step back as Viktor kept advancing on him. They were in the hall on the way to the ice, and people were staring. “It’s not a bad idea to lower the difficulty of jumps this early in the season, is it? You should prioritize adjusting your programs to help you reach your peak for the Grand Prix Final.”

      Yuuri wanted badly to argue, but he knew Viktor was right – and anyway, he was his coach.

      As if he could read Yuuri’s mind, Viktor lowered the plush so he could meet Yuuri’s eyes clearly. “Or are you going to say you can’t follow instructions from your coach?”

      Yuuri looked away, silently seething. He’d really just wanted Viktor to tell him that he’d done well. Apparently, Minami was willing to do just that. He was coming down the hall on the way to the ice with his coach, crowing to anyone who’d listen, “That was amazing! Yuuri-kun’s pure charms became a rich eros in the best form of betrayal possible!”

      His coach looked distracted, or perhaps she’d just been listening to Minami prattle on in this vein since Yuuri’s skate. “Minami-kun, you need to get ready. It’s almost time.”

      “Kanako-sensei, you saw him, right?” Minami demanded, whirling on his coach. With a start, Yuuri thought he could see tears in Minami’s eyes. “That triple axel? For me, it was a GOE of three _million_ points!”

      The coach, Kanako, nodded with a sweet-looking smile. “Yes, and I hope this time _you_ can land your triple axel – it’s your Achilles heel.”

      Instead of being discouraged by Kanako’s words like Yuuri thought he himself would be, Minami nodded and unzipped his track jacket. “Yeah, I’m gonna show Yuuri-kun my skating!”

      Yuuri was thankful when Morooka caught his sleeve and brought him and Viktor over to a quieter area to shove a microphone in his face. If he could just focus on talking to Morooka, he didn’t have to worry about being pissed off at Viktor, right? Dutifully, he answered Morooka’s questions with Viktor’s occasional input. They talked long enough that there was an announcement that the short programs for the day had concluded as Morooka asked, “Katsuki-san, how do you feel looking ahead to the free skate?”

      “Uh,” he began, trying to think of something reassuring to tell the press. Were they as disappointed by his skate today as Viktor was?

      Viktor shouldered Yuuri over a little so he could speak into the mic. “Tomorrow, you’ll see Yuuri performing perfectly, of course!”

      Yuuri wanted to kick him. _Is he trying to make me panic? Does he_ want _me to look like an ass tomorrow when I don’t live up to expectations?_

      Minami and Kanako came back through the doors into the much quieter hall. “…and I landed my triple axel, too!” Minami was saying.

      “That was your best performance yet, Minami-kun,” Kanako reassured him.

      Unfortunately, Minami caught sight of Yuuri and Viktor then. “Oh, Yuuri-kun! Did you see my Lohengrin performance?”

      Yuuri almost felt bad, looking into Minami’s earnest face and saying, “No, I’m sorry, I was being interviewed…”

      Minami visibly deflated, tears springing to his eyes. He wailed a little, unzipping his track jacket to show a garishly sequined, medieval-esque costume. “I even had a similar costume made to the one _you_ wore for your famous Lohengrin program.”

      Yuuri flinched, turning red. _I thought we had all the footage of that pulled._ “That’s a costume from my dark past…” he muttered.

      Minami’s eyes went wide, and he took a step forward. “You don’t have a dark past!” he said vehemently. “And don’t make fun of me for looking up to you for so long and wanting to catch up!”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say, and he glanced at Viktor out of the corner of his eye. Viktor was no help either, watching Minami with an interested glint in his icy eyes. Minami pointed a finger right at Yuuri’s chest.

      “I’m gonna give tomorrow’s free skate everything I’ve got! Please, Yuuri-kun, you’ve got to give it all you’ve got, too. I won’t forgive you if you slack off!”

      Naturally, Morooka still had his cameraman filming. “Oooooh, Skater Minami has issued a challenge to Katuski Yuuri!” Yuuri looked again to Viktor, who still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Morooka continued, “At last year’s Nationals, skater Minami Kenjiro finished ahead of Katsuki-san. His first senior division competition will be a clash over a possible changing-of-the-guard! Here in Fukuoka, skater Minami’s home turf, he’ll face skater Katsuki, who will be skating publically his free skate for the first time…”

      Yuuri’s eyes widened as he finally realized who Minami was. _He’s the one who finished so much higher than me last year after I self-destructed…._ Minami _… fuck._

      Thankfully, Yuuri and Viktor were able to leave for their hotel room not long after that. Yuuri didn’t want anyone to talk to him, much less look at him. He and Viktor weren’t talking – Viktor had tried, but Yuuri ignored him and Viktor quickly took the hint. Yuuri knew he was being petty, but he didn’t particularly care about being fair, not when his thought were already going a hundred miles a second.

      “’M going to shower, is that okay?” he asked as soon as Viktor opened the door to their room. Even if Viktor had said no, Yuuri was planning on taking the first shower, anyway. Viktor agreed, though, and Yuuri didn’t have to pick another fight.

      When he got out of the shower and had dressed in soft joggers and a shirt that had three-quarter sleeves to not accidentally expose the cap of his koi tattoo, Viktor wasn’t even in the room. Instead, Minako sat on one of the beds – the one that hadn’t been unmade the night before. Cheeks flaming, Yuuri sat across from her on the bed he’d shared with Viktor.

      “What’s up?” Minako asked, the light in her eyes dying a little when she saw Yuuri’s dismayed face. He had some idea that she’d been planning on teasing him about sharing the bed with Viktor, but he obviously wasn’t in the mood.

      “Oh, I don’t know. I’m fine, really, Minako-senpai. I’m fine.”

      “ _Yuuri_ ,” Minako said, drawing his name out in warning.

      Yuuri sighed and looked over Minako’s shoulder to the window behind her. “I’m just afraid I’m not good enough, Minako-sensei. I know Viktor’s disappointed in my scores today –”

      “What?” Minako squawked. “ _Disappointed_? Yuuri-kun, didn’t you hear them say that if this had been an internationally sanctioned event, your score would have been among the top ten in the world? Why would you think Viktor’s disappointed with you?”

      “Because he said as much,” Yuuri snapped, meeting Minako’s eyes with a scowl.

      “Aw, sweetie,” Minako said, softening at the tears in Yuuri’s eyes. “You skated really well, Yuuri-kun, there’s nothing to be worried about. I saw him scolding you after your skate, but really, he’s been beaming at everyone when they look your way. I think Viktor is trying to motivate you to be even better – he just isn’t doing a very good job of it, huh? Try not to be so hard on him.”

      Yuuri spluttered a little. “ _I’m_ the one being hard on _him_?”

      Minako laughed. “He’s never coached before – I can’t remember his name, but the short bald man who’s always yelling…”

      “Yakov,” Yuuri supplied.

      “Yeah, Yakov – he’s the only coach Viktor’s ever known, right? So it’s no wonder he doesn’t have much of a soft touch.”

      Yuuri sighed. Minako was right, but he was still irritated. “There’s still the free program tomorrow…” he began.

      Minako patted Yuuri’s shoulder, getting to her feet. “I’m sure you’ll do great, Yuuri-kun. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

      “Wait – where’s Viktor?”

      Minako laughed. “He was worried about you. As soon as you got in the shower he texted me and asked if I’d check on you. I expect he’s in Nishigori’s room, pestering the poor guy for reassurances.”

 

      Yuuri and Viktor hadn’t argued any more, but neither had slept well, either, in separate beds. Even Viktor, in another expensive suit no less, looked somewhat disheveled. Yuuri was tempted to fix the flyaways of platinum creating an unkempt halo around Viktor’s head, but he spitefully decided that Viktor would listen better if a camera assistant fixed that for him.

      Yuuri bristled a little when he overheard Morooka the next morning, giving a rundown of the competition so far. He was talking about how Yuuri had three quads planned for his free skate, and that wasn’t quite right – Viktor had told Yuuri to lower the difficulty to only one quad. Across the room, Minami was talking to the other two skaters, boasting about the quad _he_ had planned for the day, too.

      “Really?” one of the other skaters said, looking impressed. “You’ve never even landed one in practice!”

      And Yuuri set his jaw and made a decision.

 

      Before warm up, Minami kept trying to catch Yuuri’s eye. Yuuri had too much to think about, he couldn’t spare a thought to figure out what to think about Minami, and he pointedly looked away from him. No, no, no – I have to focus on myself!

      Coming off the ice after the warm up, though, Viktor grabbed Yuuri’s hand. “Yuuri,” he said, drawing out Yuuri’s name the way he did when he wanted something.

      A thick lock of platinum hair obscured Viktor’s eyes from view, but Yuuri could see enough of his face to know he was frowning. “How can someone who can’t motivate others motivate himself?” Viktor slammed Yuuri’s skate guards down on the boards. “I’m disappointed in you.”

      Viktor stalked off, leaving Yuuri with a horribly sinking stomach. He remembered thinking once, having seen all of Viktor’s tattoos, that he’d let Viktor murder him – this was as good as that. Viktor had just left Yuuri gutted. _What about my_ own _motivation that he just destroyed_?

      Yuuri was heading back to find a corner of the locker room to mope in when he saw Minami taking the ice. It was hard to miss him – he was wearing a gold and red costume as vibrant as his dyed hair. For a moment, Yuuri kept walking, replaying Viktor’s words over in his mind on a horrible loop. It was almost too late, the rink having fallen mostly silent, when Yuuri put his hands up to cup his voice and shouted, “Good luck, Minami-kun!”

      Minami whirled around on the ice to look at Yuuri, eyes wide with shock, and Yuuri shouted again for good measure, “Good luck!”

      Instead of hiding out in the locker room, Yuuri stayed to watch Minami skate. Minami landed the quad he’d announced he’d be attempting – a toe loop – and flubbed a jump not a moment later. Even so, the crowd seemed to love his program, clapping along to the upbeat song playing. _Man, he’s so inconsistent,_ Yuuri thought, touching his cheek, still pink from when he’d shouted across the quiet rink. _He reminds me of the way I used to be… I can’t look away. But I think he’s already got the necessary skill set to really compete in figure skating._

      It was this, the thought of being so easily overtaken, that finally made Yuuri turn away. He stuffed earbuds into his ears and grabbed his stretching things from the locker room. He needed quiet, he needed to _think_. Yuuri slipped out the door marked for the stairwell into the parking lot. No one would interrupt him – they were all busy cheering Minami on.

      When the light outside was turning the muddy yellow of a sunset in the city, Yuuri made himself go back inside. He’d heard the other two skaters’ names announced – he was next. The past skates, Viktor had combed Yuuri’s hair back and touched his face with the barest layer of makeup. Yuuri didn’t even _know_ where Viktor was; he pushed his hair back carelessly and refused to think about the state of his face. With confidence painted on his face that he really didn’t feel, Yuuri strode down the track along the outside of the ice. Minami was against the boards, watching the last of the program another skater was doing. Just having taken a step too far past him, Yuuri remembered how Viktor was so insistent on Yuuri inspiring others. Spite made him hit a little harder than he meant to, but he swatted Minami on the back in what he hoped was still something that could be considered an ‘atta boy’ gesture.

      He didn’t even see Viktor until he was close to the gates. Viktor appeared, looking considerably better than he had in the morning. He didn’t ask where Yuuri had been, just took Yuuri’s jacket from him and smiled appraisingly at his costume. “Yeah, you look great. _Beautiful_ , really. You look beautiful.”

      Yuuri’s stomach felt like it contained a whole, jumping koi fish. Afraid of that showing in his face, he tried to look away over Viktor’s shoulder, tried to think of nothing at all. Viktor put a hand on Yuuri’s cheek, though, tilted his face so he could look at it. Viktor smoothed his fingertips through the side of Yuuri’s hair, ran his thumb over Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri tried to look bored, tried to pretend like his pulse wasn’t jumping like he’d just run a marathon.

      “Your lips are a little chapped, hang on,” Viktor murmured, his voice low but perfectly loud over the hum of the rink to Yuuri’s ears. His face as impassive as Yuuri was trying to keep his, Viktor first pulled a glove off and then fished a jar of expensive lip balm from his suit pocket. He opened the jar with one hand and swiped a finger through the balm. Yuuri stayed still and didn’t flinch away when Viktor rubbed the balm over his lips, just kept his lips slightly open and pliant.

      And then Viktor was shoving the jar back in his pocket and pulling Yuuri to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. After a moment, Yuuri wrapped his arms around Viktor, too, putting a hand at the base of Viktor’s neck so he could run his fingers just through the softest baby hairs at Viktor’s nape. Somewhere behind him, Yuuri could hear spluttered gasping and he smiled, imagining the kind of mental combustion Minami – for it _was_ Minami – must be feeling.

      Yuuri’s irritation at Viktor hadn’t faded all the way, but they stayed touching until it was time for Yuuri to take the ice. He almost didn’t want to untangle himself from the warm, rose-and-sandalwood scented safety of Viktor’s arms, but he had a free skate program to debut.

      It was to cheers and applause that Yuuri looped around the ice before taking his starting pose. _I’m going to show them – I’m going to show Viktor._

      Viktor stood a few steps back from the boards, just enough for him to be able to look out over more of the ice. The poodle-plush tissue box was held tightly in his arms, but his eyes didn’t leave Yuuri. _This program starts back when Yuuri felt that he was fighting alone. The first jump is going to be the only quad, which he’s been landing just fine in practice._ Viktor’s eyes widened, though, as Yuuri did a quad-double instead of a quad-triple. _He dropped the triple to a double, why’s Yuuri changing the jump elements? He’s not… is he going to add a triple in the second half?_ Yuuri wore a look of intense concentration, and Viktor was rapt. _Did he go back to having three quads?_ Viktor wondered with a flicker of irritation at odds with how impressed he was already with this skate. _Doesn’t he remember that I told him to focus more on refining the performance than worrying about the jumps?_

      Yuuri could’ve looked over at Viktor at this part in the program, but he didn’t, and Viktor tensed his jaw. _He looks too stiff. This is the part of the program meant to represent when I showed up to coach him… he looks like he didn’t like that at all! Here’s a triple salchow… no, he did a quad! And stepped out of the landing, go_ damn _it!_ Viktor brought the plush in front of his face for a minute, trying to get ahold of his racing mind. _So Yuuri_ did _revert back to three quads after all. Okay, shake off the sal… good. That triple loop was_ perfect _, holy shit. Now’s the part of the program where Yuuri realizes something like love. The second half is coming up, but he already looks tired. Come on, Yuuri…_

      Viktor couldn’t look away again, not when Yuuri was moving across the ice like he was a part of the music playing through the speakers. Yuuri was, in that moment, one of the most beautiful things Viktor had ever seen on ice – he just needed to skate like he knew that, too. When Yuuri landed his triple axel cleanly, Viktor couldn’t help making a triumphant fist in the air. Yuuri stepped out of his triple flip, though, and Viktor flinched. The audience didn’t seem to mind. _He’s not nailing his jumps, but the audience is still getting fired up watching him. It’s because they see the way he’s a part of the music, too._ When Yuuri stepped out of his next combination, Viktor let loose a string of curses in Russian – Yuuri was so close to being perfect, coming just short of it. _Yuuri’s agitated, too impatient today – but it’s because of that that I can’t look away from him!_

      Yuuri skated through the spins and sweeping step sequences up to his last jump, and Viktor held his breath. He’d told Yuuri to make this one a triple for the points… one, two, three – four rotations, and Yuuri was slamming into the boards, head first. _A quad!_ Viktor mentally groaned, holding his own face in his hands. _I wonder who he takes after, to be so rebellious towards his coach._ Yuuri was in his end pose, a hand outstretched, moving with each panting breath he took. It was as if he was reaching for Viktor… _oh, it’s_ me _he takes after!_

      Blood was starting to stream from Yuuri’s nose just as the stadium exploded into cheers. _If I were Yakov, it would be an instant lecture for Yuuri,_ Viktor thought, frowning. _And I would’ve done that too, but_ …. Viktor looked around. The skater Minami was weeping as he applauded. In the stands, Minako was weeping, too. Morooka was yelling, “Katsuki-san has shown his pride as Japan’s top skater!”

      Viktor sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. When Yuuri looked away from the crowd to meet Viktor’s eyes, he at least had the decency to look sheepish, blood dripping from his nose and all. Viktor couldn’t frown for long, though. He took a deep breath, pushed his hair back, and opened his arms wide, calling Yuuri back to him. He could see the tears on Yuuri’s cheeks as Yuuri skated full-out across the ice, calling Viktor’s name in a way that sent shivers down his spine. When Yuuri launched himself off the ice and into Viktor’s arms, it was only willpower (namely, the thought of how much he’d spent on this suit) that kept Viktor from pulling Yuuri against him. Instead, he spun Yuuri around like they were doing some modified lift. Yuuri looked so triumphant, his face stretched with a happy grin, and Viktor almost feigned weakness in his arms to drop Yuuri against his chest and kiss him as deeply as he deserved – forget the blood.

      There were people – around the country, around the world, even – watching their every move, though, and the suit was Armani.

      Once Yuuri had his nose properly padded with cotton, though, Viktor couldn’t let go of him. By this time, Yuuri’s scores had been announced – his free skate was 165.20, making his overall a winning 259.56.

      “I can’t believe you scored that high after a jump like that,” Viktor said wonderingly, pressing a flurry of kisses to the side of Yuuri’s sweaty head. He couldn’t help adding, “Thanks for proving to me that you’re possible of such high PCS points,” with another kiss to Yuuri’s sweaty cheek, nuzzling against him and squeezing him close again. “And you can score even _higher_ , so don’t feel bad.”

      “Yuuri-kun!” There was a call behind them, and Viktor reluctantly let go of Yuuri, though he kept a hand out for Yuuri’s to find.

      It was Minami, who didn’t look nearly as upset as he should’ve. “I totally lost to you, Yuuri-kun, but one day I want to face you in the Grand Prix series! So until then, please don’t quit! And another thing – please, can I have your autograph?”

      The other two skaters popped up alongside Minami, chorusing “Me too!” “Can I have a photo?”

      Yuuri looked so surprised that Viktor had to fight back a peal of laughter.

      Minako, understandably, was a mess when she was able to use Nishigori as a kind of battering ram through the crowd to reach Yuuri. Viktor had to give Yuuri credit for not bolting at the sight of her happy tears, as it looked like he was tempted to do. Nishigori came stomping over a little after Minako with an ice pack for Yuuri’s bruising face.

      “What if you’d gotten hurt at the end, slamming into the boards like that?” he demanded, handing Yuuri the ice pack.

      Yuuri looked sheepish again, glancing at Viktor before saying, “At first I was desperate because I didn’t want to lose, but somehow around the middle of the program I started having a lot of fun. I don’t really remember a lot of it, though.”

      “Did you hit your head that hard?” Minako asked.

      Yuuri looked away, smiling. “I just… that was the most fun I think I’ve ever had skating in a competition.”

      Viktor wanted to joke that rebellion was, indeed, fun. Instead, he touched Yuuri’s chin to tilt his face toward him with the guise of checking the bruise over the bridge of Yuuri’s nose and kissed his cheek one more, lingering time. When their eyes met again, Yuuri was smiling, if possible, even sweeter than he had before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are genuine savages and sometimes I think that's overlooked for seeing them only as the sweetest of lovebirds. Salty Yuuri is so fun to write, though - you know, when he's not beating himself up. You and me both, buddy!!!  
> Anyway, I still adore writing this and sharing it with you all, so please let me know what you think! I'm sorry that I'm bad about responding properly, but please know I read each comment and I see every kudos and they brighten my day. Thanks for sticking with my attempt at canon-compliance and crime syndicates :)
> 
> As always, you can come holler at me on my [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) !!!!!


	8. Рыбка

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cup of China comes around, and Yuuri's anxiety flares right up and threatens to knock him on his ass. And, in a moment of growing panic, he decides he needs to clue Viktor in on a few things... but how Viktor reacts quickly becomes the least of his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a massive fan of this chapter, but do you know what I AM a fan of? Phichit Chulanont, who features heavily here, AND more interactions between Y and V and the other skaters !! :')
> 
> Please be warned that I talk about anxiety and panic attacks a lot in this chapter, so if that's something you're sensitive to, please be aware. tbh I'm drawing from my own experiences with having acute anxiety issues when I'm writing Yuuri ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

      Viktor didn’t go with Yuuri to the Grand Prix series press conference a week later. Coaches weren’t invited directly; this was something Yuuri would have to do on his own. The owner of Ice Castle Hasetsu had offered Yuuri a ride, so he’d technically be in attendance at the press conference. The rest of the Katsukis, Minako, and the Nishigoris would watch it from Yu-topia’s main room.

      Before Yuuri left, Viktor tried again to coax Yuuri to give him a preview of the short explanatory speech he’d give after announcing his theme for the season. Yuuri refused steadfastly, trying instead to distract Viktor by showing him how he’d taught Makkachin how to roll over.

      It was hard for Viktor to be irritated when Yuuri, being so clever, had literally taught an old dog a new trick. Viktor sighed, crouching next to where Yuuri sat by Makkachin and running his finger along the curve of Yuuri’s jaw. “Fine, but before you leave, you have to let me make your face up,”

      The bruise from hitting the boards at Nationals covered the bridge of Yuuri’s nose and the left of his browbone, and Viktor flinched every time he saw it. Yuuri only rolled his eyes; he didn’t think the horrible, yellowing purple bruise was that big of a deal.

      “It’s _fine_ , Viktor, really,”

      “Fine?” repeated Viktor, incredulous. They’d already had this argument, though it was playful for the most part. “No, Yuuri, someone will come breathing down my neck talking about coaches mistreating their students!”

      Yuuri laughed, throwing his head back and letting the midday sun bounce off his round, happy face. It made Viktor’s heart ache more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Yuuri checked his watch and got to his feet, reaching a hand down to help Viktor to his feet, too. They had been in the garden behind Yu-topia for most of the morning, but Yuuri was meant to be in Kōchi soon for the press conference, and they couldn’t ignore that any longer.

      Viktor didn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand, and instead of pulling away, Yuuri laced his fingers through Viktor’s as if it were the most casual thing he could do. They walked like this – not looking at each other, but smiling nonetheless – to Viktor’s room, Makkachin trailing like the last float in a short, happy parade.

      Sometimes it baffled Viktor that Yuuri hardly ever wore makeup (his skin was so clear it was nothing but unfair) when Viktor himself hardly ever left the house without at least a base of rosewater, foundation, and moisturizer. Viktor was glad, though, that there was nothing to hide Yuuri’s freckles when he leaned in close. There were more now than there had been when Viktor had first arrived in Hasetsu, _which is the nature of being in the sun_ , Viktor reminded himself. It was still a treat every time he saw them. Of course, now half of Yuuri’s lovely face was covered in that stupid bruise.

      Knowing Yuuri didn’t want to be fussed over but also knowing that Yuuri didn’t speak Russian, Viktor didn’t see any harm in muttering, “O, красавчик, ваше бедное лицо!” as he sat Yuuri down in front of the mirror.

      But Yuuri understood enough to raise a challenging eyebrow at Viktor. “Are you talking to my bruise?”

      “Er… no?”

      “You’re a horrible liar.”

      Viktor laughed at how serious Yuuri looked, and after a moment Yuuri laughed, too.

      “Alright, are you going to fix my face or what?”

      Viktor got to work on covering the bruise with makeup, and he and Yuuri both fell silent. _Goodbye, freckles_ , Viktor thought as the tiny kisses from the sun were all covered under concealer. He’d done plenty of people’s makeup before – hell, Viktor took credit for Georgi Popovich’s makeup obsession right up until Georgi went overboard – but there was something much more intimate when it came to Yuuri. Viktor almost forgot to breathe, so close to Yuuri, who always sat still and quiet for him. He didn’t want to stop dusting around Yuuri’s face with the powder brush, either, because once he was done Yuuri was going to leave him for the rest of the evening. Viktor was selfish; he wanted Yuuri all to himself, ugly bruise and all.

      “Viktor?” Yuuri was slowly opening his eyes – Viktor had forgotten to keep pretending like he was still working on Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri figured he was done. _Fuck_.

      “Yeah?” Viktor asked, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t been distracted by the perfection of Yuuri’s face.

      “What’s ‘Красавица’ mean?”

 _God damn it all, of all the words to pick out, he chose that one_ , Viktor swore mentally. He put the makeup back in its bag, set the brush and blender aside to be washed, and walked over to the bed so he wouldn’t have to be right next to Yuuri when he told him. “It’s uh… it’s just a Russian endearment.”

      “You’re not going to tell me what it means?” Yuuri’s tone was teasing, but his chestnut brown eyes were earnest.

      The blush on Viktor’s cheeks was probably the most vibrant thing about his whole person. He cleared his throat. “It means ‘beauty’.”

      Yuuri was quiet for a long couple heartbeats before laughing – _laughing_ – and walking over to stand in front of Viktor. “What, is that like a _joke_?”

      “A – what? No!” _How many times have I called him beautiful – in Russian, in English, in_ French, _whatever – and he thinks I’m insincere?_

      Yuuri was smiling, but he didn’t give Viktor a chance to splutter an explanation. “I’ve got to go, Yamamoto-san is probably here already. I’ll see you tonight?”

      Viktor rubbed a hand over his face, exasperated. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you when you get home.”

      “You think you’ll be awake?” Yuuri teased, and then he was gone, Makkachin trotting after him for a last goodbye pat. Viktor slumped back on the bed. _Forget drugs or accidents or the fucking bratva. Katsuki Yuuri is singlehandedly going to be the death of me._

      That evening, the rest of Yuuri’s family, Minako, the Nishigoris, and some men Viktor recognized but didn’t really know all crowded around the TV to watch as each skater from Japan stood and announced their theme for the year. Everyone was speaking Japanese, but out of courtesy for Viktor, English closed captions had been turned on. They lagged a little behind what was actually being said, but Viktor didn’t see any need to complain. And finally, it was Yuuri’s turn.

      Morooka was announcing the event, standing on stage with the small group of skaters. “Next we have the skater Katsuki Yuuri, who is thought to be the next leader of men’s singles in Japan. Katsuki-san, please show us your theme,”

      Yuuri looked down at the board he held but didn’t otherwise move. Viktor felt the tension in the room; he knew they were all worried that Yuuri might be having some sort of anxiety attack. But his face looked calm enough; he simply seemed to be deep in thought.

      “Uh, Katsuki-san, please show us your theme for this year.”

      And then Yuuri was placing his board down on a stand so the press could see it; there was an audible murmur through the room at the press conference. Mari leaned over to say softly to Viktor, “The large kanji says ‘love’, and he’s signed his name below.”

      Viktor knew that that would be Yuuri’s theme; that was, after all, what the programs both corresponded to. What he was anxious to hear was what Yuuri had to say about it that he wouldn’t tell Viktor beforehand.

      Morooka handed Yuuri the microphone and, looking a little lost without his glasses, Yuuri stepped to the center of the small stage. “My theme for this year’s Grand Prix series is ‘love’. I’ve been helped by many people thus far in my competitive skating career, but I’d never thought about ‘love’ until now. Though I was blessed with great support, I couldn’t take full advantage of it, and I always felt like I was fighting alone. But since Viktor Nikiforov showed up to be my coach, I’ve seen something totally different. My love is not something clear-cut, like obvious romantic love, but the more abstract feeling of my relationships with Viktor, my family, and my hometown. I was finally able to realize that love exists all around me.

“Viktor is the first person I’ve ever really wanted to hold on to. I don’t have a name for that emotion, but I’ve decided to call it ‘love’. Now that I know what love is and am stronger for it, I’ll prove it to myself with a Grand Prix Final gold medal!”

      Viktor couldn’t catch his breath. He clutched Makkachin against him, staring at the TV long after the captions had changed away from Yuuri’s words and Yuuri had returned to his seat. Around him everyone else was silent, though he could feel a few pairs of eyes on him. What could he say? Of course, if he opened his mouth now, there was a chance he’d let out a sob, and he’d prefer that not happen.

      Nishigori cleared his throat. “So Yuuri was saying that all of us…”

      “…were just abstract to him,” Yuuko finished for him, frowning at the TV like Viktor was. She looked confused; Minako looked more irritated.

      “After all this time that we’ve supported him…”

      Viktor thought maybe they could all use a joke - he sure as hell could, if only to keep him from weeping. “When Yuuri gets back, we’re going to burn that tie, it’s awful. Don’t you think? And we can buy another before the Cup of China…”

 

⋆

 

      For once, Yuuri was awake in the early morning with Viktor. He never slept well before leaving for competitions like this – but at least he could sleep on the plane. And when he opened his eyes in the gray half-light filling the room, he could see the blue glint of Viktor’s eyes, watching him. Yuuri couldn’t tell though, if it was his fidgeting in the bed they were back to sharing or simply because he was used to waking up early that Viktor was awake next to him.

      “Good morning, pыбка,” Viktor said, finding Yuuri’s hand under the covers over them both.

      In spite of his nerves, Yuuri smiled. “Good morning, Viktor. What’s that one mean?”

      “Hmm?” Viktor was running his thumb soothingly, distractingly, over the back of Yuuri’s hand.

      Yuuri hoped the pink flush rising to his cheeks wasn’t as obvious in the low light. “What you said – _reep-ka_? You use a lot of different words for me, what’s that one?”

      Viktor chuckled, his voice low and rough from being unused all night. “That one I like for you, I don’t know why. Рыбка – it’s an endearing name that means ‘fish’, actually, which I guess is odd...”

      Yuuri tensed. Fish? Like the big koi that swam across his chest? Did Viktor know? _Well… maybe I_ should _tell him... Yamamoto and Fukuyama have both told me I could, or that I should, if anything to find out Viktor’s own associations… It’s been months, and we’re about to be on the Grand Prix circuit, he’s bound to find out anyway… oh my god, I’m going to tell him._

      Viktor was watching Yuuri with narrowed eyes, obviously having picked up on the change in his mood. He carded his fingers through Yuuri’s bedhead, fingertips soft as a whisper over his scalp. “Are you alright, pыбка?”

      “Um, Viktor,” Yuuri began, clearing his throat. “Do you remember when Yurio was still here, and before we skated against each other you went out one night to Nagahama Ramen?”

      Viktor smiled, his teeth catching the morning light filtering through the curtains. Yuuri suppressed a shiver, but he didn’t know if he did so very well. “Well, I know I went out because I remember my hangover, but I don’t remember much of the night itself. I’d had some crazy dreams, though.”

      Yuuri tried to smile; he knew it looked forced, could feel it in how tense his whole body had become. “When you came back, I helped you to your room to get ready for bed – made you drink some water, put asprin out and everything.”

      “Oh!” Viktor said suddenly. “I made you carry me, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” he said, laughing again in the quiet. Yuuri tried to smile again; it was easier this time. But could Viktor feel how he was trembling?

      “It’s okay, that’s not what I was getting at. It’s, uh – well, before you let me go back to my room, you said you had something important to tell me.”

      It was Viktor’s turn to look apprehensive. “What did I say?”

      Yuuri cleared his throat again. “Well, you said that you’d been noticing people in the onsen with tattoos.”

      “Oh?”

      “And you were concerned that there was a, uh, a _yakuza_ here.”

      “Oh.”

      “And I think I laughed and told you you were drunk but… well, the thing is that you’re not wrong?” Yuuri’s voice pulled up at the end like a question, and he braced himself for some kind of panic from Viktor. Never before had he told someone about the yakuza – he’d never had to.

      Viktor had gone very still. “I see.”

      “It’s – it’s alright, though. They’re not a threat to my family or to any guests or anything like that, really. It’s not too big of a deal.”

      Viktor muttered something under his breath that sounded like ‘I should have realized sooner’. He met Yuuri’s eyes though, and gave him a tiny smile. “I’m not worried, Yuuri, pыбка. It’s not something that concerns me, you know?”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say – because really, this _did_ kind of concern Viktor. Yuuri himself was a member of the ninkyō dantai, of the yakuza. But how could he make Viktor see that? Or should he even try?

      Viktor misread the twisted look on Yuuri’s face, and found Yuuri’s cheek with his other hand to stroke over the plane of Yuuri’s cheekbone. “Look, pыбка, I’m not worried. Feel my heart.” And with the hand still holding Yuuri’s, Viktor put their hands both over his heart, adjacent to the tattoo on his chest of mirrored Cyrillic and over the five-rayed sun. “Can you feel it? My heart is beating no faster than it normally does, looking at you.”

      Yuuri blushed and squeezed his eyes shut, which was apparently the reaction Viktor had been going for.

      In a voice so quiet even Yuuri had to strain to catch it, Viktor said, “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to hold on to, too, Yuuri, and a yakuza in your home isn’t going to change that.”

      Feeling bold, or perhaps desperate, Yuuri closed the space between their bodies to nestle against Viktor’s chest. “Promise?” he whispered, lips forming the words against Viktor’s collarbone.

      Viktor dropped a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. “I promise.”

      Yuuri’s heart was still nervously pounding away in his chest, but there was a kind of safety in the half-light, under the covers with Viktor’s arms wrapped loosely around him. Too soon, the alarms they’d both set on their phones were going off, coaxing them out of bed. Viktor, who had a longer reach, located both phones on the bedside table without letting go of Yuuri. He clicked the alarm off on his own and hit snooze on Yuuri’s, but didn’t rise from the bed, instead holding his phone behind Yuuri, still against Viktor’s chest, so he could see it and check the few social media notifications he paid attention to.

      “Ah, Yuuri, look over your shoulder at my phone?”

      “What? Yuuri asked sleepily, having almost drifted off after breathing in tandem with Viktor for the last few minutes. He did as he was asked, though, and looked over his shoulder just as Viktor snapped a picture.

      “Viktor!” Yuuri protested, more shocked than upset.

      Viktor laughed, something Yuuri felt rumble against his own chest from how close they were. “It’s just a snapchat for Phichit… I have a streak with him, actually!”

      “You _what_? Phichit _Chulanont_?” Yuuri was definitely more awake now, and he rolled over to look at Viktor’s phone properly, though Viktor’s arms were still around him and he didn’t move his body away from him.

      “Yes, oh! Look, he screenshotted that,” Viktor said, sounding pleased.

      Yuuri groaned. “Tell him not to post that, then, the last thing we need is the press thinking I spend the nights before competitions fucking.”

      Viktor was laughing when he took the next picture, this one with both Yuuri and himself facing the camera properly, Viktor obviously wrapped around Yuuri like a platinum-haired cape. The caption he typed out read ‘ _Yuuri says please do NOT post these_ ❤’, and Phichit screenshotted that, too.

 

      If Viktor’s farewell to Hiroko had been misty, watching him say goodbye to Makkachin was downright heartwrenching.

      “I’ve taken Makka everywhere with me since I was fourteen…” Viktor explained, his eyes red-ringed. Makkachin helpfully put his head in the hand Viktor had been gesturing with, and they all had to swallow lumps in their throats. Viktor sniffed and looked up and Yuuri (who was trying his best not to cry, too) and nodded, apparently steeling himself.

      “Alright, Makka-Makkachin, you’re minding the house this season. You be good for Mama Katsuki and Mr. Katsuki and Mari, okay? And don’t you dare steal any buns! Be a _good_ boy.” Viktor tugged gently on Makkachin’s jowls and ruffed up the pouf on top of his head.

      Makkachin blinked up at Viktor, panting softly. Viktor pulled his dog into one last hug as Yuuri checked his watch. He gently touched Viktor’s shoulder. “Viktor, we’re going to miss our flight if we don’t leave. Come on,”

      Viktor sighed and got to his feet. Bidding the Katsuki family one last farewell, he and Yuuri gathered their bags and walked over to the Uber that was waiting in front of Yu-topia for them.

 

      Viktor let Yuuri have the window seat. “It’s been a while since I’ve flown coach… Do you want to order some champagne?”

      Yuuri raised his eyebrows at Viktor. _Is he serious? It’s barely nine in the morning_. “Viktor, I’m going to try and sleep,” he said, shaking out the blanket he’d been given by a stewardess.

      “I’m surprised you can sleep in such a cramped seat!” there wasn’t any kind of edge or challenge to Viktor’s tone, but it was a little irritating all the same. What did he want Yuuri to say, ‘sorry but the yakuza didn’t feel like shelling out to fly us first class’? And Yuuri came close to saying just that, if only to see what Viktor’s reaction would be. They _were_ flying coach, though, and it wouldn’t be prudent, should someone overhear.

      “Try this,” Yuuri said, raising the armrest between them and flipping half the blanket over to cover Viktor.

      “Ah! You’re so smart, pыбка!” Viktor gave Yuuri a heart-shaped smile before sliding lower in his seat so he could pillow his head against Yuuri’s shoulder. When Yuuri fell asleep a few minutes later, it was with Viktor’s hand held loosely in his own. They were going to Beijing for Yuuri’s first Grand Prix event of the season – Yuuri, with Viktor by his side. He was ready.

 

      Yuuri felt like they’d barely arrived in China and to the rink and he was already swarmed with reporters. They ushered him and Viktor onto a small platform with a backdrop of sponsor logos shortly after they arrived and began peppering them with questions.

      “Uh, how much of the power of love do I have?” Yuuri repeated blankly, running a hand through his hair. He still felt stale and grimy from the airport; all he really wanted was to take a shower. Apparently, Viktor wasn’t keen on dealing with press either. He shook his sleeve back to check his watch and nudged Yuuri, saying loudly, “Let’s wrap this up so we can go eat hotpot already.”

      “Viktor, I’m in the middle of an interview…”

      And then something even more interesting caught Viktor’s eye. His old coach, Yakov Feltsman, was walking past with a massive frown on his face and Georgi Popovich beside him. “Oh, Yakov!”

      Yakov didn’t stop, so Viktor jumped off the platform and jogged after Yakov and Georgi, grabbing the back of Yakov’s puff jacket when he continued to ignore Viktor.

      “Yakov, do you want to come eat hotpot with us?”

      Yakov kept walking, even with Viktor pulling on him. Georgi didn’t turn, either.

      “Hey, why are you ignoring me?” the smile didn’t falter on Viktor’s face. He’d pissed Yakov off plenty of times – this wasn’t new behavior to him. Eventually, he’d be able to wear Yakov down. He always did.

      On cue, Yakov stopped and turned, fixing his old student with a glare. “Viktor!” he barked, “Listen, I feel _sick_ when I see you playing at being a coach. I’d prefer if you only spoke to me when you’re ready to plead for your return to skating. _Got it_?”

      Viktor blinked at his old coach. This wasn’t the response he was expecting, but so be it. Yakov just needed more time – there was nothing pretend about Viktor being Yuuri’s coach, and he wasn’t planning on _pleading for his return to skating_ any time soon. By this time, Yuuri had escaped the questions of the reporters and was now hovering awkwardly behind Viktor; he could feel his eyes on him. With a shrug, Viktor turned and slung an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders like he’d planned the whole thing.

      “Yakov isn’t interested in joining us. Shall we go, then?”

 

      Thankfully, Viktor agreed to make a detour at the hotel so Yuuri could shower without complaining. When Yuuri emerged from the bathroom, zipping a sweater over the white shirt he wore in case it turned sheer under the restaurant’s lights, Viktor was lounging across one of the beds on his phone.

      “Do you know the current standings of the Grand Prix series?” he asked, not looking up.

      Yuuri scratched the back of his neck. He’d tried not to stay on top of the way the first two competitions had panned out for the sake of his anxiety. All he really knew was that Phichit was also competing here in Beijing. “No,” he said to Viktor, walking over to stand by the bed in Viktor’s line of sight. "I didn’t want to get worked up seeing all their scores.”

      “Oh? Well, it looks like an American won Skate America – he and the bronze medalist are here for the Cup of China – and no one from Skate Canada is here, but Yurio placed second there.”

      “Did he really?” Yuuri asked, raising his eyebrows at Viktor, who’d finally looked away from his phone to meet Yuuri’s gaze. “That’s his first sanctioned event as a senior skater, not bad.”

      Viktor shrugged, sitting up and stuffing his phone in his pocket. “He could’ve scored higher though, and I’m sure he knows that. I looked up the ratings of hotpot places and it looks like there’s one around the corner that’s apparently good, do you want to walk?”

      Yuuri almost rolled his eyes at how adeptly Viktor changed subjects, but took the hand Viktor held up to him and pulled him to his feet. The held hands until they got to the lobby of the hotel, when Yuuri thought of all the fans, other skaters, and press who might be milling around. _He_ didn’t even know what his relationship with Viktor was, and he didn’t need half the world speculating about it. Viktor started pouting when Yuuri pulled his hand away, but he didn’t argue.

      The hotpot restaurant Viktor wanted to try really was around the corner, only a few minutes’ walk. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded – after all, Beijing was an hour behind Hasetsu, so the dinner rush hadn’t yet hit the restaurant. Viktor and Yuuri got a round booth that was technically too big for just the two of them, but more or less secluded behind an ornate screen. It seemed like Viktor only looked at the menu for a moment before ordering about half of what was offered.

      When the food arrived, Yuuri could barely look at it. The closer they got to the competition, the more anxious he was becoming.

      “You’re not hungry?” Viktor asked around a mouthful of drunken shrimp.

      Yuuri could feel a cold sweat on his cheeks, and he took a quick sip of water. “Uh, I try to avoid raw food before competing,”

      “Are you sure? It’s really good,” Viktor said, making puppy eyes as he smiled at Yuuri.

      Yuuri suppressed a smile. Viktor was nothing if not persistent, so he took a bite of the shrimp Viktor was holding out to him, trying not to brush Viktor’s fingers with his lips and failing. The shrimp wasn’t bad, but it still turned his stomach more than he wanted to admit. Viktor, though, looked more or less victorious and stopped bugging Yuuri to eat. Yuuri sighed and leaned his elbow on the table, watching Viktor clumsily add to the simmering broth between them.

      “I’m afraid I ran my mouth too much at the press conference,” Yuuri said, bringing up the main concern he had for what had to be the hundredth time. Viktor kept eating, but raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement like he hadn’t heard where Yuuri was going with this. “What if I lose? I’ll make a fool of myself, after all I said.”

      Viktor was saved by having to respond by someone coming around the corner and loudly gasping, “Yuuri?”

      “Phichit-kun?” Yuuri’s head snapped up and his morose face broke into a smile. His old roommate and close friend was standing by the table, waving.

      “So _this_ is where you’re eating!” Phichit said, looking from Yuuri to Viktor. “Hey!”

      “Oh, hello!” Viktor said, giving Phichit one of his heart smiles.

      Phichit winked at Yuuri, who still looked somewhat surprised. “Talk about a _coincidence_! Hey, can I invite Ciao Ciao?”

      Yuuri immediately felt the cold sweat come back to his brow, and he cut a glance at Viktor, whose smile _might_ have flickered but was quickly back to a benign mask. “Uh…”

      “You do what to see him, right?” Phichit asked, crowding close.

      “Not really…” Yuuri muttered, but Phichit was already texting the coach. Yuuri got up and gave Phichit a hug, anyway, though. It was good to see him. Phichit sat where Yuuri had been, and Yuuri pushed Viktor over a little to sit next to him on the edge of the booth.

      Apparently, they were all at the same hotel, so it only took a few minutes for Celestino to walk to the hotpot restaurant. Over those few minutes, though, Yuuri quickly was able to realize that Phichit and Viktor had become something of friends over social media. He couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at Viktor when he asked after Phichit’s hamsters by name – if they’d talked enough for even forgetful Viktor to remember Phichit’s hamsters’ names, what had Phichit been _saying_? Had Phichit let anything slip about Yuuri over their conversations? Yuuri, in that moment, couldn’t decide if it was worse if Phichit had described the way Yuuri had papered their apartment walls with posters of Viktor or if Phichit had told Viktor about Yuuri’s tattoo.

      Celestino found their table and greeted them all with his customary booming, “Ciao, ciao!”

      Yuuri’s mouth went dry. “Um, hi,”

      Viktor glanced at Yuuri’s face before throwing an arm around his shoulders and turning to Celestino, holding up a shrimp with chopsticks. “Want some shrimp?”

      “Ah, no, that kind of food doesn’t agree with me –”

      “Really? It’s so good!” Viktor leaned across Yuuri to all but thrust the shrimp in Celestino’s face, using the chopsticks to wiggle it.

      Celestino went slightly green, and Yuuri found himself wondering not for the first time if Viktor didn’t quite like Celestino. The thought made Yuuri smirk in spite of himself. Celestino slid into the booth next to Phichit and across from Yuuri, though, and he quickly lost the smirk.

      Thankfully though, Celestino’s attention was more on the open bottle of wine than Yuuri.

      Phichit had gotten a hold of a menu and was flipping through it with interest for about a minute while simultaneously conversing with Viktor before he dropped it on the table with a loud smack. “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” he explained to the others, “I don’t speak any Chinese dialects, let alone know how to read any.”

      By the time their laughter had quelled, Phichit had fired off a text to Leo de la Iglesia, the American skater competing, who was good friends with Guang-hong Ji, the Chinese skater who was also competing.

      “They’re joined at the hip whenever they can be,” Phichit explained with a wave of his hand like this was common knowledge. “Leo checks his texts more than Guang-hong, though, so they can _both_ just come here and read this for me!”

      Viktor was nodding like this was either the smartest thing he’d ever heard or a normal course of action – either way, Yuuri was halfway afraid he’d be getting some ideas when it came to summoning people via phone.

      “I haven’t seen much of either of their programs,” Viktor said, turning to Celestino, “I know they’re both under twenty, so they can’t have been doing this long – what do you think, Celestino?”

      Celestino huffed and reached to top off his wine glass, apparently treating Viktor with the same disdain Yakov had when Viktor mentioned coaching.

 

      Night had properly fallen and the dinner rush was well under way when Leo and Guang-hong found their table, joined at the hip like Phichit had said they’d be. Leo was taller with long chestnut hair; Guang-hong was more petite and had his eyes locked on Viktor like he was in the presence of a god. Which, Yuuri amended to himself, he kind of was. Viktor was regarded as a living legend in their sport – that was undeniable.

      Of course, Viktor had also gotten engaged in a kind of drinking competition with Celestino in the time it took the younger skaters to arrive. He was handling his liquor better than Celestino, but only barely. While Celestino was leaned over the table in a stupor, Viktor had started stripping out of his clothes. When the teenagers walked up, Viktor was shirtless and wrapped possessively around Yuuri, flushed, laughing, and speaking to everyone mostly in Russian _. The_ best _thing about this_ , Yuuri thought, doing his best to stay calm, _is that he’s pressed so close to me that no one can see his tattoos._

      “Uh, hi,” he said, blushing and trying to be polite. Phichit didn’t bother greeting his friends; he was documenting his passed-out coach like his life (and YouTube views) depended on it. “Viktor’s… Viktor’s had way too much to drink.”

      Viktor laughed, “Я не пьян! Я русский,” and, nuzzling against Yuuri’s face so his teeth grazed his ear when he spoke next, “Let’s find a hot springs!”

      “Keep it together, Ciao Ciao!” Phichit was laughing, prodding his coach on the shoulder and taking another flurry of pictures.

      The teens looked shell-shocked. “Viktor… _Nikiforov_ …” Leo was muttering.

      Viktor perked up and tried to focus on them, not relinquishing his grip on Yuuri. “There’s a hot spring!” he told Leo and Guang-hong excitedly, as if he’d just remembered. “It’s in Hasetsu, which is a great place,”

      And then Viktor was starting to shimmy out of his pants and Yuuri had to act fast, tackling Viktor back into the booth. “Viktor, _don’t strip_!”

      He heard one of the teens say to the other, “Oh, this is kind of R-rated, isn’t it? Maybe we shouldn’t be here,”

      When Viktor got his pants off and flung them over Yuuri’s shoulder, though, Guang-hong caught them – which Yuuri thought was better than the pants ending up on the restaurant floor. There was no hiding Yuuri’s blush when he turned to Guang-hong and Leo, trying to block as much of Viktor’s nudity as he could with his own body.

      “Uh, I think we might need to go… can I have those, please?”

      Guang-hong, who was probably the only person redder in the face than Yuuri, passed Viktor’s pants back to him

 

      Early the next morning, Yuuri and a bedraggled Viktor arrived at the Capital Gymnasium to a variety or murmurs and raised eyebrows. Viktor was doing better than Yuuri had expected, even when he gave Yuuri a fleeting peck on the cheek and told him hoarsely that he needed to find coffee. “I’ll be back to do your hair,” he said and Yuuri had smiled and told him to sober up some more, first (“I’m perfectly sober!” Viktor had insisted, “I’m _Russian_ , remember?”).

      Phichit met Yuuri at the locker room door with a painted-on smile just as Yuuri emerged from putting on his costume and patting concealer over the dregs of the Nationals bruise.

      “So Yuuri, have you checked your notifications today?” Phichit asked in lieu of a greeting, and Yuuri felt his blood turn to ice. He’d heard this sugar-sweet tone from Phichit on several occasions over the years they’d lived together, and it usually meant Phichit was trying to make the best of an unexpectedly bad situation (like the time his hamster Mongkut shredded the notes Yuuri had painstakingly prepared before a particularly nasty statistics test).

      “Phichit, you know I have my notifications off… _what did you post_?”

      “Before you get mad, it’s already my most-liked post of the year –”

      Yuuri snatched Phichit’s phone from him and unlocked it without hesitation (Phichit had had the same passcode for at least two years, which was probably a security risk but Yuuri wasn’t about to mention that). Naturally, the phone was still open to Instagram; Yuuri tapped over to Phichit’s profile with shaking fingers and almost dropped the phone. Phichit had uploaded a shot not only of Celestino slumped over the table, drunk, but with a very shirtless Viktor on the other side of the table, arms around Yuuri and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

      “Phichit-kun!”

      “Sorry!” Phichit didn’t sound remotely apologetic. “I couldn’t help myself from uploading at least one.”

      Leo and Guang-hong had joined him, looking irritated under their show makeup. “We didn’t share anything!” “Phichit, you cheater,”

      Phichit did look more apologetic when he leaned into Yuuri to say, “I made sure you couldn’t see his tattoos in that one, though, so his secret is safe, at least. But _damn_ son, you weren’t kidding, that’s some serious ink!”

      “I regret telling you anything,” Yuuri snapped, trying to even his breathing out. _Everyone is going to see Phichit’s post and think I spent the night before my Grand Prix season debut fooling around with my coach. They’ll see me fail and say it’s because I was fucking Viktor instead of practicing, oh god – what will my parents think? What will my brothers in the ninkyō dantai think?_

      His thoughts were kept from spiraling further when someone came up and clapped a hand on his ass, abruptly changing the subject in his mind.

      “Yuuri, why didn’t you invite me?” said a voice in his ear, a hand still holding his ass. It was Christophe Giacometti, who never failed to make a memorable entrance.

      “ _Chris_ ,” Yuuri hissed, knowing who was groping him before he’d looked up at his old friend.

      Chris patted Yuuri’s ass once more, laughing and saying, “I see your master’s whipped you into shape. You must be getting very _thorough_ training.”

      “Chris!” Yuuri said again, but even he couldn’t hold back a somewhat hysterical giggle at that. Chris was tall, Swiss, handsome – and endlessly lewd. He and Yuuri had been friends since their junior division days, though their contact sometimes lapsed. Chris never seemed to hold it against Yuuri, though. After all, he was a very popular skater, both with fans and competitors alike.

      As if to prove that, Viktor was suddenly hurrying over, calling, “Chris! How are you?”

      Chris crossed the floor to Viktor before Yuuri could. “Viktor,” he said with a pout, reaching out to play with the end of Viktor’s tie, “I’m just not motivated without you.”

      Viktor wasn’t fazed by this. He shrugged, looking over Chris’ shoulder to Yuuri, and said, “Well, you’re always slow to start, anyway.”

      Yuuri caught the innuendo, and he was sure everyone else did, too. There was a small scuffle between Leo, Guang-hong, and Phichit for the best angle of Chris and Viktor together in a shot, and Yuuri could feel his cheeks heating up. He’d heard rumors since he was fairly young about some kind of a relationship between Chris and Viktor but had never thought it was his place to ask anyone if the rumors had any credence.

      Chris’ coach, a bald man named Josef who’d once been an ice dancer, came walking over from the same direction Viktor had come from, holding a coffee. He either hadn’t caught what Viktor said or simply chose to ignore it. Looking earnestly at Viktor, he said in his thick Swiss accent, “It’s true, Viktor, Chris isn’t motivated this season – he can’t get serious without you. Come back to skating.”

      Viktor’s own reply was drowned out by two passing women’s singles skaters, who shrieked excitedly when they caught sight of him. Yuuri couldn’t understand the Russian they spoke, but he got enough of the gist when one of the women gestured to Yuuri with a jutted-out chin and made a face.

      Chris had his hand back on Yuuri. “Keeping him to yourself is a sin, Yuuri,” he said. Yuuri looked away, guilt flaring in his stomach, as Chris continued, “The whole _world_ is waiting for him to return.”

      And that, if possible, made Yuuri feel sicker to his stomach than Phichit’s Instagram post had. _So what will happen if and when I fail?_

      As much as Yuuri wanted to go and find a good rock to hide under after that, Phichit was the first skater of the day and it would take more than that to keep Yuuri from watching him. He hadn’t seen Phichit’s program for the season, but he knew that he was finally skating his dream program to music from ‘The King and the Skater’. What was more, Phichit was making a landmark movement by representing Thailand in the Grand Prix series – he was the first Southeast Asian skater to do so.

      From where Yuuri was warming up, he could hear the commentary over Phichit’s skate and watch the screens from the corner of his eye. He flinched when Phichit fell on his quad toe loop, even though he’d gotten all his rotations in – Phichit had placed fourth at his first Grand Prix series event, and needed to score at least second to stay in the competition. It was difficult, caring for someone and wanting them to proceed for that reason, but also recognizing them as a fierce competitor.

      Yuuri abandoned his warmup to stand in front of one of the monitors. _Phichit-kun has really made this music all his own_ , he thought, watching the program continue with wide eyes. Yuuri knew the movie almost as well as Phichit, anyway, from all the times Phichit had dragged him into watching it with him. He’d talked about skating this program for years, and Yuuri was excited to watch him. In the end, Phichit scored a personal best, and Yuuri was proud. Still, a horrible pain was building all through his body. Yuuri jogged up and down the corridor, knowing people were watching him. They were waiting for him to crack like he had the year before, he was certain. _After seeing Phichit-kun skate, I’m no longer unsure. People who want to see Viktor skate will never be satisfied by my skating. The people who are cheering for me won’t be satisfied by the old me, either. If that’s the case… I want to be hated as the man who took Viktor from the whole world!_

      When he passed by, Yuuri could hear Chris ask Viktor if Yuuri was alright. Viktor shushed Chris, and after a heartbeat said, “I’ve never seen him like this…”

      Yuuri wanted to grab him by the tie and make him listen. _No one’s seen me like this; it’s all for you. This is what you’ve made me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended on an angsty note but I promise that everything turns out okay pls do not be worried xoxo
> 
> As always, it's necessary that I tell you guys that I don't speak Russian! There's only so much google translate can go, too. However, I was lucky enough to come across a website with a lesson entirely on Russian terms of endearment, and I've used it a lot while writing this fic. You can check it out [here](http://www.funrussian.com/2011/07/18/russian-terms-of-endearment/).
> 
> Did Viktor and Phichit conspire to surprise Yuuri in the hotpot restaurant? that's for you to decide!!  
> If you guys saw me on my yoi tumblr in March griping about how I was getting distracted writing Yuuri from Vik's POV, this is the chapter that was getting me sidetracked!! Sorry but I love Katsuki Yuuri so damn much lol  
> Also this is just a general question but do All of these figure skaters lack general tact and poise??? No shade though lmao pls don't come for Chris or Phichit in front of me because I *will* cry
> 
> Thank you as always for reading and leaving feedback!!! It's only been a few days since I posted last but as these events are kinda all related tightly and I personally know how agitating it can be to be left waiting for the action to continue, you can probably expect another update pretty soon!  
> As always, you can find me most easily on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/)


	9. Risque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to let things get bad in order to dig deep and find what matters most and use that to reach new heights of greatness. And sometimes you have to flash your coach and cry a little before you skate, because emotions are whack like that AKA _Viktor is Barely Holding His Own Shit Together But He's Trying, Damnit!!_   
>  (Cup of China pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning for descriptions of an anxiety attack, depressed thoughts, and some really minor dissociation ❤️ remember Yuuri can be an unreliable narrator sometimes, and he doesn't know his worth! So prepare for some angst, especially in regards to the yakuza/bratva, but I hope you'll like the outcome!

      Yuuri was the last Group 1 skater. It was almost off-putting, that his anxiety wasn’t as bad as he expected it to be. He’d made up his mind, though – he was going to show the world that there was a reason why Viktor had left the skating world, and it was _all him_. He stood on the other side of the boards, waiting for Viktor to give him last minute instruction before the program began. His heart was pounding in his ears, not helped by the fire in Viktor’s eyes, but not unpleasant all the same.

      Viktor put his hand over the loose fist Yuuri had resting on the boards. “ _Yuu_ -ri, the time to seduce me by imagining katsudon and women during your skate is over.” There was a softness in Viktor’s eyes that had Yuuri’s stomach doing all kinds of acrobatics. “I want to see your own, personal charm. You can envision it just fine, can’t you?”

      When Viktor’s fingers tensed a little over Yuuri’s, Yuuri moved his hand to lace their fingers together. Without stopping to think much of what he was doing, he rocked forward and pressed his forehead against Viktor’s. He could feel Viktor’s sharp inhale right by his own mouth.

      Keeping his voice as low and even as he could, Yuuri said, “Don’t ever take your eyes off me.”

      When Yuuri pulled away, skating backwards for just a second before turning to take his position in the middle of the ice, he saw that Viktor’s eyes had fluttered closed, and he’d moved as if to follow Yuuri’s mouth. _Good_.

      Viktor’s own stomach was doing somersaults. His skin felt electric where Yuuri’s had been against it. As Yuuri had told him to, though, Viktor found that he couldn’t look away from him – he just couldn’t. _He’s different today. What’s flipped his switch?_ When the music began, Viktor watched as Yuuri ran his tongue over his lips – and at the point where Yuuri always looked to Viktor, he seemed to tease a kiss, jutting his chin towards him. But that couldn’t be – right?

      Yuuri kept his lips pursed against a smile as he started the step sequence to begin the short program. He felt like he was playing a character again, but the only person on his mind was Viktor. It was exhilarating. _They can laugh all they want; they can talk about how I’ve changed from my past seasons, and I don’t care. Because everyone really wants to know the new me, don’t they?_ Yuuri landed his triple axel and his quad salchow. _Because I’m the only one who can satisfy Viktor… I’m the only one in the whole_ world _who knows Viktor’s love. And I’ll prove that now._

      Quad toe, triple toe – a clean combination. There was a combination spin, and then Yuuri had finished a short program with the highest technical difficulty in history, and what was more was that he’d done it cleanly. When he looked up from his end pose, Viktor was jumping, pumping his fist triumphantly in the air.

      Yuuri chuckled to himself, watching Viktor, before straightening his face and looking around the ice that was rapidly being covered in toys and flowers. He couldn’t celebrate as freely as Viktor was until he knew his scores, but he felt good about his skate. He made one last loop around the ice, waving tiredly to the crowd, and scooped up two plushes shaped like sushi pieces (Yuuri had gained a reputation amongst his more dedicated fans for being a foodie, likely from Phichit’s documentation of Yuuri stress eating before finals while in college. Yuuri didn’t mind like he once had).

      At the Kiss And Cry, Viktor wore a satisfied, smug grin. “Yuuri, didn’t that feel _great_?”

      Yuuri was still a little out of breath, and everything was horribly out of focus without his glasses. And worst of all, where there should be emotion he felt a cold and empty pit. It was like his mind hadn’t quite caught up to the daring, sensual performance he’d just given – with the notion of showing his relationship with Viktor to the world, proving that Viktor was his even though he couldn’t say that for certain, that was what he’d been intending, wasn’t it? – and when everything _did_ sink in, his anxiety would likely be a beast. He thought about these things before saying, “Well, I hope people felt great watching me skate.”

      Viktor didn’t know how to respond to that – wasn’t Yuuri proud of himself? If Viktor had just pulled off a short program like that, no one would be able to tell him _shit_. It was almost a relief when the scores came back – then Yuuri would see how well he’d done, right? And he _had_ done well – 106.84, a new personal best that rocketed Yuuri right to first place.

      Viktor cheered and applauded. Next to him, Yuuri was quiet, leaning forward and squinting at the monitor. Viktor put his hand on the side of Yuuri’s face, pulling him up and into a tight hug.

      “Of _course_ people would feel great watching that,” Viktor said into Yuuri’s ear. It was hard to tell over the applause, but his voice seemed to waver to Yuuri. “You were _incredible_ – you’re the _best_ student, Yuuri.”

      Viktor didn’t to want to let go of Yuuri so he could do his post-skate interviews. He expected Yuuri to be gloating and oozing pride, but instead Yuuri’s voice had turned soft and he took on the quality of a deer in headlights. It was consternating, to say the least, but Viktor couldn’t be too upset. If Yuuri wasn’t going to be proud of himself Viktor sure as hell would be _for_ him.

      When Yuuri was finally done stuttering to the cameras, Viktor grabbed him and pulled him back into another tight hug. Yuuri looked pale, blinking up at Viktor with his lovely brown eyes. Viktor shoved a water bottle in Yuuri’s hands and kissed his temple.

      “Drink, Yuuri. Why do you look so upset? You just pulled off something I don’t think I would’ve been able to – all your jumps in the second half, I’m so _proud_ , Yuuri, I’m so proud.”

       Yuuri just nodded and took a sip of his water. He didn’t look like he was processing a word Viktor was saying, or at the very least believed him. It was frustrating, but even Viktor could tell that this wasn’t the time to give a lecture. While Georgi Popovich took the ice, Viktor led Yuuri back to the locker room with a hand on his lower back. Even if Yuuri didn’t think he was deserving of his score (or whatever it was that was making him act weird), Viktor knew he needed to stretch his muscles down.

      “Are you alright?” Viktor asked, reaching out to smooth a hand over Yuuri’s hair. To his surprise, Yuuri batted him away.

      “I’m _fine_ , Viktor, stop hovering.”

      By the time Leo de la Iglesia was on the ice, the proper color had returned to Yuuri’s cheeks. Viktor still kept his distance, though his eyes didn’t leave Yuuri.

      Once he was comfortably cooled down and back in his track jacket, Yuuri joined Phichit and Guang-hong by one of the monitors showing Leo skating.

      “Man, Leo’s cool,” Guang-hong hand his hands on his chest, and Yuuri suppressed a smile – he recognized the hearts in Guang-hong’s eyes as what could surely be seen in his own when Viktor was around. And anyway, it didn’t look like Leo was skating half-bad.

      Phichit had more experience watching Leo skate than Yuuri did, and he said, “Leo’s switched things up even more since Skate America,”

      “Didn’t he win that?” Yuuri asked, feeling dumb.

      Phichit nodded, but neither he nor Guang-hong looked up from the screen. Even not being very experienced with Leo’s style, Yuuri could tell that the program had been choreographed wisely.

      “Even without quads, this shows off all his strengths, doesn’t it?”

      When the program was over, his scores came back just higher than Phichit’s. Phichit swore, but he still looked impressed with his friend’s performance. Yuuri thought that if he’d been edged out of place by such a solid program, he wouldn’t have been _too_ upset. That being said, though, he was leading the others with a large margin and that was, if anything, more nerve-wracking than being in the middle of the pack.

      Christophe Giacometti was the last skater of the day. He skated out on the ice in purple and blue, waving and winking at different women in the crowd. The arena was filled with a cacophony of wolf-whistles and shrieking women. As soon as Chris’ program began, Yuuri could feel a flush rising to his cheeks. His program may have been all about ‘eros’, but Chris seemed determine to redefine sex appeal on ice. Every one of his movements was dripping in sensuality. Even when the first jump became a triple instead of a quad like the announcer had narrated, Chris looked unbothered.

      By this time, Viktor had wandered over to join Yuuri, Phichit, and Guang-hong by the screen. Thankfully, Yuuri let him wrap his arms around him, even put his hands over Viktor’s. Viktor put his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, rubbing Yuuri’s chest absently with his thumb. Of all of them, Viktor knew Chris the best – and he could watch Chris’ program more objectively, not getting so distracted by the lewd movements Chris was doing.

      “He said he didn’t have much motivation, but Chris never goes into a major slump. He’s a slow starter, and he never wants to peak at the first event.” They all watched as Chris spun himself across the ice, crouching to push his ass out like he was a speed skater. Viktor’s hand stilled on Yuuri’s chest. “Today he’s _really_ going all-out on sex appeal…”

      Chris grabbed his own ass through a spin. The way he moved his arms and canted his hips, he was obviously drawing as much attention as he could to his bulge as much as his skating. No one knew really what to say, especially when Chris ended the program looking particularly pink-cheeked and smiley around panting breaths.

      Yuuri sighed and leaned into Viktor, who’d moved to get a better look at the screen but still had an arm around Yuuri’s waist. “I think the sex appeal award goes to Chris, then.”

      Viktor patted Yuuri’s hip but didn’t say anything contrary to that – and Yuuri didn’t even care. It would’ve been embarrassing if Viktor tried to argue in Yuuri’s favor.

      Phichit summed up Chris’ performance best with a small grimace. “The ice looks… soaking wet.”

      Even with all his sex appeal poured out on the ice, Chris ended the day in fifth place. From the look on his face on screen in the Kiss And Cry, he wasn’t bothered by this, either. As the announcers started running through the day’s scores, though, Yuuri froze. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe again.

      “Does – does that mean…”

      Phichit clapped Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m gunning to catch you with the free program, Yuuri,” he said with a smile.

      “…Katsuki Yuuri is in first place!” the announcers said to a burst of cheers and applause.

      Yuuri leaned his head against Viktor’s. He felt numb with nerves, but also strangely excited. Viktor wore a massive smile, one that reached all the way to his eyes and made them sparkle like bits of sapphires.

      When the press came to ask Yuuri how he was approaching the free skate, Yuuri was gripped with a crazy kind of intensity. “W-with my coach Viktor, I’ll win with the power of love!”

 

      The shakes were back and building when Yuuri and Viktor returned to their hotel room. While Viktor was in the shower, Yuuri called home – there was no use in putting it off. His whole family and half the ninkyō dantai who lived in Hasetsu were probably all gathered around the main room, watching the competition.

      Toshiya picked up the phone. “Congratulations, Yuuri! That performance got us all fired up.”

      Yuuko must have grabbed the phone from him, because then she was saying, “Yuuri-kun, that was the hottest program _ever_!”

      The phone on their end was jostled; it was put on speakerphone, and suddenly Yuuri could hear all his family and friends trying to greet him and praise him at once. Instead of _soothing_ his nerves, it had the effect of zapping them with a cattle prod. Yuuri heard all of their excited voices and they were added like weights to the pressure he was already putting on himself.

      Viktor came out of the bathroom, only a towel slung around his waist. His lowest-positioned tattoo, the hand holding a rose, was almost completely on display, and Yuuri knew he was staring even as Viktor asked him, “Ah, is that your family?” before saying loudly, “Hi, Katsuki family!”

      There was a flurry of greetings on the other end, and almost more cheering than had greeted Yuuri. Viktor smiled like they could see him and let their praises wash over him for a good minute before leaning over the phone properly and saying, “Yuuri has an early morning tomorrow, so we’ll call you after! It was good talking to you! Bye!”

      Yuuri flopped back over the bed with a sigh after Viktor ended the call for him. He didn’t even care that Viktor was one towel away from walking around the room naked, he just wanted his heart to stop racing. Viktor seemed unbothered; he walked back and forth across the room, having dropped the towel at this point, rummaging around in his scattered bags for first a pair of soft sweatpants and then a heavy-looking hairbrush. Yuuri watched silently from the bed, hoping that watching Viktor’s unbothered movements would help settle him, or focusing on the stark black lines of ink adorning Viktor’s chest would at least distract him.

      It didn’t work. All Yuuri could think of were the hopes and expectations of his hometown and the bold claim he’d made with his skating in the short program. If he failed with his free skate, he’d let down more than just the dozens of people closest to him; the whole world was greedily watching Viktor, waiting for a mistake or misstep to drive him back into competing himself.

      “Yuuri?”

      Yuuri looked up, and Viktor was standing over him, looking concerned. How many times had he called Yuuri’s name? Yuuri didn’t know, and he felt too numb to care. “What?”

      “Are you ready to go to bed?”

      “I’ve got to – no, I need to brush my teeth. You go ahead and get in bed, though.” Unsteadily, Yuuri got to his feet and somehow made it to the bathroom. Instead of brushing his teeth, though, he sat heavily on the edge of the bathtub. This felt like more than panic; this was blind, desperate wishes to succeed and the _knowledge_ , not the fear, that he wasn’t good enough.

      He didn’t know how long he sat, head in his hands, but when Yuuri finally was able to mechanically brush his teeth, refusing to look in the mirror, and leave the bathroom, Viktor was asleep. There was an open novel hanging from his hand over the side of the bed; Viktor was on the edge of the twin-sized bed, obviously having left enough space for Yuuri to join him. It made Yuuri’s chest ache. Viktor clearly was under the impression that Yuuri was someone he wasn’t – Yuuri was skating this season on the premise of love, but how could Viktor ever love _him_? Silently, Yuuri took the book from Viktor and dog-eared the page before setting it on the table between the two beds.

      “Yuuri?” Viktor murmured, not opening his eyes.

_He’s sleep talking, probably, just thinking about the people he's seen today. It doesn't mean anything, but that's alright_ , Yuuri thought. He mustered a smile even though Viktor was asleep and couldn’t see it. “Goodnight, Viktor.”

      Viktor didn’t say anything else in his sleep, just smiled and nuzzled into the pillow. Yuuri wanted to cry, but he wasn’t going to sleep with Viktor tonight. He couldn’t, not when he knew that tomorrow Viktor would hate him for making an embarrassment of them both on the ice. As soundlessly as he could, Yuuri pulled back the covers of the twin bed opposite of Viktor’s and turned the light out. All he wanted was to sleep.

      Sleep didn’t come, though, not until the light of day started to peek through the closed window blinds.

 

      It wasn’t worth it to complain when Viktor’s phone alarm went off what felt like minutes after Yuuri had finally been able to close his eyes. Viktor, like the morning bird he was, chattered excitedly as he bustled around the hotel room, pulling socks and underwear from his suitcase and then an expensive-looking sweater from a garment bag.

      Yuuri didn’t want to think; he wanted to be a robot, he wanted all his actions to be designated by someone else. Trying not to sigh, he sat up in bed and pulled the ratty Henley shirt he’d slept in over his head. That was enough movement; he had to sit still again to collect his thoughts and try to coax himself to keep going.

      “Yuuri, maybe we can find a patisserie on the way to the rink, would you like that?” Viktor asked, fumbling with putting his watch on as he turned to look at Yuuri. Of course, Viktor had never seen Yuuri properly shirtless, and he promptly dropped the watch on his foot.

      Yuuri would’ve laughed at the sight, if he was feeling more alive – it was pretty funny, Viktor hopping around in socks, briefs, and a ribbed black sweater that was probably by Coach or something. He didn’t care that Viktor had just seen the big black and red koi on his chest, surrounded by waves in three varying shades of blue; the way things Yuuri was certain would turn out with his free skate, Viktor would be disappointed enough in him that it wouldn’t just be the association with the yakuza that would make him want to quit coaching Yuuri.

      Finally pulling himself out of bed, Yuuri grabbed his duffel bag and padded to the bathroom to get dressed, leaving Viktor staring wide-eyed after him.

 

      Viktor and Yuuri didn’t speak much that morning. They’d gone through the morning briefing at the Capital Gymnasium, and there was still some time to go before group warmups commenced. Some other skaters had reserved private practice time on the rink, one of them being Georgi Popovich, who gave Viktor a snide glare as he clicked past in his Team Russia tracksuit and skates. Viktor looked as unruffled and poised as ever in slacks, a long tan duster, and an olive green scarf that contrasted with the blue of his eyes. Yuuri knew he himself looked a mess.

      “Yuuri, you didn’t sleep much, did you?”

      “No, I slept fine!” Yuuri lied.

      Viktor didn’t believe him. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Yuuri by the wrist and dragging him out to hail a taxi to take them back to the hotel. He wouldn’t listen to Yuuri’s protests, which, to be fair, were weary and half-hearted at best. When they got back to their room, Viktor promptly peeled Yuuri’s track suit off of him and pushed him down on the bed. Yuuri didn’t fight to cover his bare chest; what was the point? Viktor saw the koi that morning, there was nothing more to hide.

      “You nap until we need to be back at the rink for the event this evening,” Viktor instructed, pulling the bedclothes over Yuuri and settling down next to him. Yuuri felt a flicker of gratefulness that Viktor hadn’t used the opportunity to start poking and prodding at the koi, asking questions Yuuri didn’t have the energy to answer. “It’ll be fine; I used to sleep in right up until I needed to skate.”

      Yuuri rolled over to look at Viktor, who was arranging himself against the pillows to wrap protectively around him. “But –”

      “ _Yuuri_ , don’t argue with me on this. You need your rest.”

      “Did you set an alarm?”

      “Of course. Go to sleep, Yuuri.” Viktor threw an arm and a leg over Yuuri and nestled against Yuuri’s chest, pillowing his head on top of the koi. With his ear literally over Yuuri’s heart, there was no doubt that Viktor could hear it pounding away. Yuuri wished his thoughts would quiet and the awful, preemptive regret would stop gnawing at him.

 

      Taking Yuuri back to the hotel to rest had apparently also been a good opportunity for Viktor to change into a proper suit. The extra sleep seemed to have worked away any lingering trace of the day before’s hangover, leaving Viktor looking fresh and bright and smelling distinctly of rosewater toner under his Gucci cologne. Yuuri couldn’t say as much for himself. His hands shook so badly that he couldn’t even open a bottle of water.

     “Did you nap?” Viktor had appeared in front of Yuuri after having been greeting other coaches, making him flinch, and took the water bottle to open it easily.

      “I did, I did!” Yuuri said, hoping that between nodding rapidly and not blinking he’d convince Viktor.

      No such luck. Viktor handing the water bottle back to Yuuri so his hands were free to place heavily on Yuuri’s shoulders and pull him close. With a sweet smile that didn’t match the finality of his words, Viktor said, “I _forbid_ you from doing any jumps during the six-minute warmup.”

      “What?” Yuuri gasped. If anything, he felt even more agitated than before. Viktor wanted him to go into the competition today without any preparation for his jumps? Was he insane, or just cruel?

      “That’s an _order_ from your _coach_ , Yuuri,” Viktor said, squeezing Yuuri’s shoulder almost enough to leave a bruise. There was a quiet fury beneath the obviously fake smile, Yuuri could see that – but what had he done, now?

      Yuuri was in Group 2 for the second half of the event, owing to his untouchable short program score. Viktor stood with the other coaches, watching intently as Yuuri joined the other Group 2 skaters for the six-minute warmup. _If he flubs a jump during warmup, he may lose even more confidence and that will negatively impact the free skate,_ Viktor thought, tapping his lower lip. To his left, Celestino was watching the ice with a smug smile; Viktor understood, at least partly, why Celestino felt so confident in Phichit Chulanont’s ability to overtake Yuuri today. _Yuuri gets nervous easily_.

      Yuuri also didn’t like to follow orders. As Viktor watched, Yuuri attempted a triple lutz and promptly fell on his ass. From the corner of his eye, Viktor saw Celestino’s smug smile widen. _Oh, Yuuri_. There was no use in chastising Yuuri as Viktor met him and walked with him back through the halls of the Capital Gymnasium. Yuuri’s face had fallen, and he looked as ashen as Viktor had ever seen him. _How do I fix this?_ Viktor wondered. Yuuri had shoved his hands into the pockets of his track suit; Viktor couldn’t even hold his hand and offer that small comfort.

      “Well, it’s common for skaters to nail jumps they flub in practice,” Viktor said, making his voice as light as he could. “Just continue your off-ice warm up, nice and easy.”

      Yuuri got away from Viktor, though, and found himself in front of one of the many monitors watching Guang-hong Ji’s skate. After only a minute or two, he’d already seen enough. _These kids are so much better than me, and I’ve got to sit and watch them all before I can disappoint everyone with my skate._ Trembling, Yuuri pushed the power button on the monitor, but it wasn’t enough – there were three in close vicinity to him, and he could hear the sound spilling from each of them. Not even thinking of the people watching him with surprise scrawled over their faces, Yuuri punched each of the screens off. There were plastic chairs in the corner of the room; he sank into one and buried his head in his hands, though he couldn’t stop the shaking of his body.

      He only let himself have a moment, shaking in the corner. _People have sacrificed for me to be here, and even though I know I’ll never be good enough for them, I have to show them that at least I tried._ Feeling like he was piloting an uncoordinated, leaden dead body, Yuuri found his yoga matt and set about getting some of his warmup done. It didn’t help that the whole while, he could hear the applause and announcer describing Christophe’s skate and he could feel Viktor watching him.

      It sounded like Chris was nailing his jumps, even the quad lutz Yuuri had fallen out of during the six-minute warmup. Yuuri leaned against a blank wall, stretching his hips and trying not to hyperventilate.

      Suddenly, Viktor grabbed Yuuri by the shoulder and all but hauled him off behind him. “Yuuri! Let’s warm up in a different place.”

      Yuuri looked behind him as he was being pulled along: there were reporters, some with cameras. _Viktor’s embarrassed of me_.

      Viktor and Yuuri somehow ended up in a wide stairwell, walking down to the parking garage. Yuuri didn’t ask any questions, his face drawn and pale, and Viktor felt his heart thudding awfully in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with this _feeling_ , with this intense desire to protect Yuuri and push him on into greatness all the same. Before Yuuri’s short program, Chris had teased Viktor, saying, “It’s not like you to leave he ice and find someone you want to take care of.”

      And Chris was right – Viktor had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Every move was blind, there were risks at every turn, and all he wanted was the best for Yuuri, the very best. All he wanted was _Yuuri,_ Yuuri with his secrets and his big yakuza tattoo and his soft body and sharp edges. It made Viktor’s throat hurt.

      Yuuri turned to Viktor with his eyes stretched wide as a thunder of applause could be heard from upstairs. “Viktor, what are the current standings?”

      Viktor had never seen Yuuri look so physically on edge, never mind how empty his voice sounded. “O-okay, Yuuri,” He waved his hands in placating motions. This was just nerves – they’d work together to move past them. “Take a deep breath for me,”

      Yuuri started to, but paused mid-inhale as one of the announcers’ voices rumbled upstairs. “Who are they announcing? If Chris was already skating… Phichit?”

      “Yuuri, _please_ ,” Viktor said, putting his gloved hand on Yuuri’s cheek.

      Though he made a face at Viktor and turned away, Yuuri took several deliberate breaths, and Viktor relaxed a little. At least Yuuri wasn’t fighting him on that, but his normally bright eyes looked dull.

      “Do you think you should go through some of your choreography?” Viktor prompted, leaning back against one of the great cement posts. Yuuri still didn’t look at him and muttered something under his breath, but did as Viktor suggested all the same.

      There were raucous cheers from rinkside above them, and Viktor scowled up at the ceiling. He’d hoped that several meters of cement would muffle the sound more than this. The effect it was having on Yuuri was obvious. Even with Yuuri refusing to look at him, Viktor just _knew_ those wide, panicked eyes were back. The hum of music stopped, signifying the end of Phichit’s program, and the applause only became more intense. Viktor was still scowling toward the cheers when he heard a strangled gasp behind him. Yuuri, who’d been wearing earplugs to muffle the sound even more, had _removed_ them like a self-sabotaging idiot. And now he looked more panicked than ever.

      Viktor moved without thinking, dashing across the short distance between them and clapped his hands over Yuuri’s ears. He barked, “Yuuri! Don’t listen!”

      Yuuri was panting, even though neither of them had been moving much, and his jaw was trembling. Now that he was holding Yuuri’s face right in front of him, Viktor could see how pale Yuuri had become in the last hour and the stark contrast of his under-eye circles. Yuuri looked like a mess. He didn’t fight Viktor’s hold, didn’t look away from him. He just stood, captive, shaking and panting and looking like a man facing his impending death. It was clear to Viktor that Yuuri wasn’t focused properly on the competition; there was some sort of block he was experiencing.

       _I’d understand being focused on the other skaters’ standings if you were younger or less experienced. But why is Yuuri so nervous? And how can I motivate him?_ With his head still held by Viktor, Yuuri closed his eyes for a moment, leaned into Viktor’s touch. But almost as quickly, he was stiffening again and starting to draw away. _What’s going on with him? I have no idea what to do._

      “Viktor,” Yuuri said, almost sounding like his usual self, even though his eyes still had that staring-death-in-the-face look. He put his hands on Viktor’s wrists, pushed him away a little. “It’s almost time. We need to go back.”

      Viktor frowned, thinking. _Skaters’ hearts are as fragile as glass… even those who belong to apparent yakuza members, it seems._ Yuuri slowly stepped around Viktor and started heading back toward the stairs they’d come down. Each step was like a hammer driving the idea deeper into Viktor’s brain. It was risky but… maybe it would work.

      “Yuuri,” he called without turning around. In the parking garage, there was no need to speak too loudly. Everything echoed around them. Yuuri’s footsteps stopped. _Okay, let’s see what happens if we break that glass heart_. Viktor rubbed a hand over his eyes. This was going to hurt _him_ to say, and he almost lost his nerve. He turned around slowly, still with a hand on his forehead, moving to shove his fringe back.

      “Yuuri, if you mess up on this and miss the podium,” Viktor had to swallow the lump in his throat, ran his hand through his hair, squeezed his fist around the lighter in his pants pocket, and _made_ himself continue, “I’ll take responsibility by resigning as your coach.”

      Yuuri didn’t say anything for several heartbeats. He looked to Viktor like a person who’d just been shot and the pain hadn’t yet sunk in. And then the pain hit, and Viktor regretted everything from the last few minutes immediately. Tears were pouring down Yuuri’s cheeks at an alarming rate, and Viktor felt like he did whenever he stepped accidentally on Makkachin’s paw, multiplied tenfold.

      “Why… why would you say something like that, like you’re trying to test me?” Yuuri asked through his tears, his voice surprisingly even.

      Viktor was mentally shouting every swear he knew, and in every language _. I shattered his heart, I_ shattered _it._ He started walking over to Yuuri, cautious like he was approaching a wounded animal with both hands held out in surrender. _I’ve got to fix this._ “Um, I’m sorry, Yuuri… I wasn’t being serious,”

      Yuuri ignored him, his whole body shuddering with sobs he was suppressing. “I’m used to taking blame for my failures. But this time, I’ve been anxious because I know my mistakes will reflect on you, too! I’ve been wondering secretly – I’ve been afraid that you’re wanting to quit! And return to skating yourself…”

      Yuuri’s voice broke, and Viktor wanting to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. “Of course I don’t want to quit, Yuuri,” he whispered, halfway disbelieving. _Why would I ever want to leave him? I don’t think I could, I can’t leave him –_

      “I _know_!” Yuuri shouted, his voice raw already from the tears. Viktor flinched. Yuuri was still sobbing, and Viktor wanted nothing more than to hold him – he suspected, though, that Yuuri would just push him away.

      “I – I’m not good with people crying in front of me,” Viktor tried to explain. “I don’t know what I should do… should I just kiss you?”

      “No!” Yuuri snapped, raising his chin so he could look Viktor in the eyes. “I just need you to have more faith than I do that I’ll win! You don’t even have to _say_ anything,” Yuuri sobbed, his tears renewing. “Just stand by me.”

      Viktor clenched his jaw against his own desire to cry. _I’m such a fucking idiot,_ he thought _, and I need a fucking cigarette or I’ll fall to pieces, too._ His old lighter was a familiar weight even in the pocket of his suit, but Viktor knew better than to leave Yuuri to go searching for smokes to bum. Moving slowly again, Viktor closed the small distance between his body and Yuuri’s, and Yuuri all but fell into him. Viktor was grateful for that, at least.

      Yuuri let Viktor hold him, running his gloved hand soothingly through Yuuri’s hair to the nape of his neck and back again. Slowly, Yuuri’s sobs were replaced by deep, somewhat shaky breaths. Finally, with one last sniffle, Yuuri pulled away and gave Viktor a watery smile.

      “Georgi must be skating now, Viktor, we really do need to go.”

      Viktor tried to return the smile, but it was hard. _I just want to grab him and go back to Hasetsu, or the hotel, or just somewhere we can get in bed and wake up in a place where I haven’t made him feel like I don’t believe in him._ Yuuri let him hold his hand, though, while they walked back up the stairs – and that made him feel a little better, at least.

      In the corridor with the other skaters, coaches, and press, Viktor moved his hand to Yuuri’s shoulder without being asked. It seemed the best thing to do, but Viktor wasn’t exactly sure because Yuuri was back to avoiding his eyes. _What’s he thinking?_

      Yuuri and Viktor were rinkside in time to watch the tail end of Georgi’s skate. Viktor wasn’t going to pay attention to his old rinkmate, though – only Yuuri mattered. Only Yuuri. It wasn’t long before Viktor was collecting Yuuri’s tracksuit jacket, skateguards, and water bottle, and Yuuri was skating a loop around the ice, waving like nothing had happened. Would people notice the red ring around his eyes, his pale cheeks?

      Viktor was replaying Yuuri’s words over in his mind: _I just need you to have more faith than I do that I’ll win! You don’t even have to say anything. Just stand by me_. Finding his marks on the ice, Yuuri looked unruffled as ever, his face settling into the blank mask he usually wore at the start of each skate. What Viktor would give to know what was going through his mind… _Maybe I should have asked Yakov what to do as coach in situations like this._ But Yakov was in the Kiss And Cry with Georgi, whose scores had come back to put him in third place.

      With Georgi’s scores announced and out of the way, the time for Yuuri’s program to begin was almost upon them. Viktor had half-expected Yuuri to start without coming back by him for final remarks, but he was wrong. Yuuri skated over and stopped smoothly right across from him, plucking tissues from the poodle plush box. He didn’t say anything, only blew his nose and looked at points all around Viktor’s head, but not directly at him. Viktor held his hand out for the used tissue, and Yuuri finally looked at him. He started to drop the tissue into Viktor’s hand, but at the last minute moved to drop it onto the ice instead. Viktor had to dive fast, leaning over the boards, to pluck it from the air. When he did, Yuuri gave him a solid poke in the center of his scalp, right where his hair whorled and parted.

      For a moment, Viktor was back at Ice Castle Hasetsu, when Yuuri had touched his hair like that and Viktor had collapsed dramatically to the ice. It had really been a ploy to keep Yuuri from insisting on continuing his stubborn approach to learning more quad jumps – but Viktor wanted to be back there now, lying on the ice and laughing with Yuuri flush against him. Yuuri pressed his hand flat against Viktor’s head for a moment, but when Viktor looked up he’d already turned and skated away. All Viktor could do was numbly put his hand on his head where Yuuri’s hand had been and watch him move across the ice.

      Yuuri settled into his starting position and took a deep, steadying breath. His mind felt clearer than it had since before his short program. _I feel a lot better after crying. And Viktor’s expression when I started crying – that was priceless_. That made him smile a little, even as the music began and Yuuri was moving with it. _I’ve cried after a skate before, but never before. So, the first jump… quad-double toe loop combination_. A cheer went up as he landed them cleanly. _That was better than I’d expected. Viktor’s… he’s so inexperienced as a coach. It’s not like my anxiety disorder started recently. He should’ve been prepared for this! Stupid…_ Yuuri’s irritation at Viktor propelled him right through a clean quad salchow. _Oh, I made it._

      A deeper sense of calm was coming over him the further Yuuri progressed through his skate. His thoughts had been so hectic, so on-edge, and he hadn’t felt like himself. _I even let Viktor see my koi tattoo, and I didn’t say anything_ – Yuuri touched down on the landing of his triple axel. _Oh, fuck. I let him see my tattoo and I didn’t_ say anything _. What’s he been thinking this whole time? I just messed up controlling the speed on that axel… it went okay, though, considering I didn’t do it during practice. Okay, triple flip_ – he landed it without much thought – _oh. I wonder what Viktor would think if I made the last quad a flip instead of a toe loop_ …

      The idea of doing Viktor’s signature jump was intriguing, and distracting. Yuuri over-rotated the triple sal at the end of an axel-loop combination. He could almost see Viktor flinching at the rookie mistake. _Well, I over-rotated, but I’m not as tired as I should be, given that I haven’t slept. I want to become stronger, like everyone thinks of me. I_ can _become stronger_. _I can surpass Viktor’s wildest imagination!_ The step sequence was almost through, and there was one more jump to do.

      Everyone was expecting a quad toe loop. Yuuri gave them Viktor’s signature quad flip. He landed hard on his ass, but he’d counted the rotations. He’d _done_ it. Even Viktor had never attempted a jump like that at the end of a program, when fatigue would be its greatest. Yuuri could hear the screaming cheers of the people in the stands, but he didn’t care what they thought. This wasn’t for them, and it wasn’t for him, either. That had been for Viktor and Viktor alone. Yuuri stood in his end pose, panting, a hand outstretched to where he knew Viktor would be standing. That first day when Viktor had shown up in Hasetsu, he’d greeted Yuuri like this, with a hand outstretched to him. Yuuri had been so unsure of himself for months, but now he knew. He wanted Viktor, wanted to take him by the hand and never let go. Would Viktor do the same, feel the same?

      Viktor’s face was in his hands. _Is he crying? Is he mad?_ Yuuri’s stomach was performing a short program of its own, flipping this way and that. Viktor didn’t meet Yuuri’s eyes, but turned on his heel towards the gate. _Which is it?_ Yuuri glanced around himself at the screaming crowd as if they held the answer. When he looked back, Viktor was still walking toward the gate, his back held very straight. And then Viktor broke into a run, and Yuuri knew. He knew.

      Viktor was running and Yuuri was skating, avoiding the gifts being thrown onto the ice. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, like his body was screaming Viktor’s name. _Vik-tor, Vik-tor, Vik-tor._

      “Viktor!” Yuuri shouted as he approached the gate. Viktor caught himself on the boards, his head down. “I did great, right?”

      Viktor’s head popped up, and he met Yuuri’s eyes as he flipped his hair out of his face. There was a small, knowing smile pressed tight to his lips, and he ducked his head in a quick nod. Yuuri was almost at the gate, and he was skidding to a sloppy stop. He was watching Viktor’s face for confirmation, for some kind of sign. And then Viktor was leaping from the concrete floor around the ice and tackling Yuuri backwards onto the ice, their lips meeting midway in the air. When they hit the ice, Viktor’s face was already away and tucked into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.

      Yuuri was stunned, and not simply from the ice coming up to meet his back with a sharp slap. Viktor had cradled his head, though, Viktor was – Viktor had just _kissed_ him, sober and in front of probably hundreds and thousands of people. _Viktor kissed me. He kissed me_. The Capital Gymnasium was probably exploding with shocked fans, but all of that had fallen away in Yuuri’s mind and there was only Viktor.

      There was something like anxiety in Viktor’s eyes as he searched Yuuri’s, laying over him on the ice, still cradling his head. “I wanted to surprise you as much as you surprised me,” he explained hoarsely.

      “ _Really_?” It seemed logical, then, for Yuuri to tilt his chin up at Viktor, to find his soft platinum hair and haul Viktor’s mouth back to his own. It was only logical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um... about damn time, right?? :')  
> Now that the boys are getting onto the same page in regards to a few different things, there's going to be some obligatory Business Talk in addition to getting the pair exhibition skate set up and delving into this new relationship. What do you guys think so far? Let me know in the comments or by sending an ask to my [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) !


	10. Overload

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri return to their hotel room after the medal ceremony and establish their feelings for one another. They also watch Dirty Dancing on a whim, and Viktor finds himself inspired...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, chapter 10 already :')  
> It's not Necessary to be familiar with the 1987 movie [Dirty Dancing](https://www.amazon.com/Dirty-Dancing-Jennifer-Grey/dp/B000IDEORY/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1526186205&sr=8-2&keywords=dirty+dancing), but if you're not, maybe check it out before reading, it's fairly easy to watch it (legally for free) online !! The title of this chapter is taken from one of my favorite songs on the soundtrack.  
> Anyway I bumped the rating on this chapter and even though nothing is explicit ~~yet~~ , just be aware :)

      Everyone had something to say or a question to ask. Viktor and Yuuri had barely untangled themselves to stagger off the ice when reporters swarmed them, throwing cameras and microphones in their faces.

      “Katsuki-san, how long have you been involved with your coach?”

      “Mr. Nikiforov, did you leave skating to be romantically involved with Katsuki Yuuri?”

      “How has dating Viktor Nikiforov changed your skating, Katsuki-san?”

      “Mr. Nikiforov, you’ve been linked romantically with –”

      At that, Viktor put his hand on the reporter’s shoulder and moved him away from Yuuri. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice just barely civil, “Yuuri and I are expected at the Kiss And Cry for his scores.”

      His other hand, of course, was clutched in Yuuri’s. Yuuri knew his cheeks were some bright color, but he didn’t quite care. Viktor had kissed him, Yuuri had finished the free skate at his first Grand Prix series event of the season and Viktor had _kissed_ him. It was like a crazy dream, and Yuuri didn’t want to wake up.

      There was no reason for there to be any space between them when Yuuri and Viktor sat at the Kiss And Cry. Viktor had let go of Yuuri’s hand but was still touching him – setting a hand on his shoulder and pressing his thumb against the vertebra at the back of Yuuri’s neck, moving his hand to clutch Yuuri’s knee – and every few minutes their eyes would meet and they’d break into giddy grins.

      There had been a moment back on the ice, when Yuuri and Viktor had properly broken apart, when Viktor held Yuuri’s face in his hands and asked, his voice gone serious, “Are you alright? Is _this_ alright?”

      And Yuuri had laughed at how surreal it felt, nodding. “Yes, _god_ , yes.”

      Viktor was watching Yuuri, an odd smile on his lips. Yuuri felt self-conscious under the scrutiny, but he tried not to squirm. After all, the eyes of everyone in Capital Gymnasium and no doubt all those watching at home were trained on them. “What?”

      “Nothing,” Viktor said, but Yuuri waited – there was never ‘nothing’, not with Viktor. And sure enough, Viktor was dropping his hand from Yuuri’s shoulder to his waist, splaying his fingers over Yuuri’s torso possessively. “I’m just really, really proud of you. That may not have been the cleanest skate, but you – you showed love out there, you know? You surprise me, every day. I’m in awe –”

      Yuuri was flushing again, and he had no doubt that if the monitor hadn’t flashed, Viktor would’ve continued waxing poetic. “Wait, Viktor,”

      Without his glasses, Yuuri couldn’t make out the numbers on the screen – but judging from the smile Viktor wore, they were good.

      “I think Phichit is still in the lead, but you scored even better than I expected with that axel and salchow.”

      Yuuri smiled back. He’d wanted to win, sure, but he’d been certain that not only would this skate turn out to be a failure, but that Viktor would tell him to find a new coach, too. “Well, Phichit-kun deserves a win… did I make the podium? Are you still my coach?”

      The last comment had been more of a joke than anything, but there was a flicker of regret in Viktor’s eyes. His jaw muscle jumped before he said, “You’re in second place, pыбка. And – please, forget all of what I’d said. I don’t know what I was thinking; there’s no way I’d leave you, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri’s stomach was doing acrobatics again, and he leaned in to kiss Viktor, never minding that they were still seated in front of cameras and officials at the Kiss And Cry. It was just a fleeting peck, but shrill cheers filled the venue anyway.

      Viktor chuckled against Yuuri’s mouth, drawing away. “Well, we should probably answer some questions and escape, what do you think?”

      Yuuri took the hand Viktor offered to help him to his feet, trying and failing to keep a smile off his face. “Alright,” he said. But as Viktor helped him off the platform and they headed to where the pack of press was waiting, Yuuri felt a flicker of concern. “Um, Viktor? Is it alright with you if we – if we don’t talk to them about us, or, uh, the kiss?”

      Viktor frowned, just a miniscule amount, but enough that Yuuri was immediately backtracking.

      “Oh! I don’t mean to say I don’t think we shouldn’t talk at all about it! I just mean… well, I think we should talk about it before we tell the rest of the world.”

      Viktor’s smile was back, and he stroked his thumb over the back of Yuuri’s hand that he still held. “Of course, pыбка. I’m a fan of avoiding questions, anyway.”

      Yuuri greeted the reporters, then, still laughing at Viktor’s remark. Everything around him seemed to have become lighter and maybe the slightest-bit rose-tinted. Yes, he and Viktor would have to figure out where they stood, but that was later. Right now, they were celebrating Yuuri making the podium.

 

      Phichit won his first gold, and Yuuri was proud to stand at his side with his silver. His own free skate had been enough to keep Christophe in third place, even though he’d apparently performed a more erotic free skate than his short program. (“He lasted longer, too,” Phichit said in an undertone to Yuuri as they climbed onto the podium, and Yuuri snorted so hard he nearly slipped onto the ice).

      There was just one more round of press to answer questions for before they could leave after the medal ceremony. With Yuuri cinching his second-place with apparent ease, and the initial shock of seeing coach and student kiss dramatically on ice having faded, everyone was wondering the plan Viktor had for the rest of Yuuri’s season.  Yuuri was tired, the anxiety of the last few days and the lack of sleep compounding horribly, and it was only Viktor grinning at his side that was keeping him upright.

      “…Now that Yuuri can do a quad flip, he’ll definitely win the Rostelecom Cup,” Viktor said, like this was obvious, “and advance to the Grand Prix Final.”

      Yuuri was still in his skates (his feet were throbbing; he was certain of at least _three_ popped blisters), and he was eye-level to Viktor – it meant he could see the smile lines around Viktor’s eyes ever better than usual when he grinned, the dapple-like freckles not totally blotted out by concealer. Yuuri couldn’t help smiling, too – right now, knowing Viktor was his, everything seemed within his reach.

      “I’m looking forward to being in Russia as his coach,” Viktor continued. It was apparently what the reporters were looking for, and soon after Yuuri and Viktor were able to leave through a side exit.

      They were back to not holding hands, standing out in the street to hail a taxi, but Yuuri didn’t mind. Viktor had one of Yuuri’s bags slung over his shoulder, and he stood close enough that their hands brushed, anyway.

 

      Back at the hotel, though, there was no reason for space to exist between them.

      “I know I didn’t ask properly, you know, when I kissed you,” Viktor began, setting the duffel he’d been carrying and reaching out to take the one Yuuri still held.

      Yuuri shrugged, taking an exaggerated contrapposto pose as he teased, “You didn’t the first time, either,”

      “The _what_?”

      Yuuri took a step forward, channeling his inner eros just a little, feeling giddy when Viktor’s eyes were drawn to his hips like he’d anticipated. “You know that dream you had about kissing me in the hall between our rooms after you got drunk at Nagahama?”

      Viktor was wide-eyed. “I really did?”

      “You really did,” Yuuri confirmed, laughing.

      Viktor put his hands on Yuuri’s waist, still looking surprised. “And you didn’t say anything?”

      “I thought maybe it was just something Russians did when they thanked people for watching their dogs!” Yuuri said, putting his own hands on Viktor’s shoulder.

      Viktor dropped his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder with a groan. “ _Yuuri_.”

      The laughter was fading from Yuuri, though, and his breath caught in his throat as he became aware of Viktor’s body flush against his, the gentle pressure of each finger encircling his waist. “Viktor...”

      “Mmm?” Viktor hummed into Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri shivered. Maybe that prompted Viktor to get the hint, for he raised his head then, slowly meeting Yuuri’s eyes through half-lowered eyelids.

       Yuuri was the one who moved first, and Viktor let him, staying still and scarcely breathing. Slowly, Yuuri moved one neck from Viktor’s shoulder to his neck, just barely finding a grip in the short hairs at the base of his skull. With an intensity like magnetism, Yuuri pulled Viktor’s mouth to his, rising on his toes to meet Viktor a little more than halfway.

      Viktor kissed Yuuri back, but not overwhelmingly. It almost felt, to Yuuri, that he was holding back – his hands on Yuuri’s waist were very still, and he didn’t lean down much into Yuuri. For a good minute they kissed, lips fitting together and slipping apart, simply learning the feel of one another. But Yuuri, feeling a flicker of concern, pulled away. Viktor’s eyes were still closed when Yuuri spoke, his cheeks flushing pink.

      “Is everything okay?” Yuuri whispered, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a worrywart.

      “Боже мой,” Viktor whispered back, opening his eyes and looking at Yuuri through his eyelashes. “I’ve waited for a long time to be able to kiss you, pыбка,”

      Yuuri couldn’t help screwing up his face, shivering again at the Russian words spilling off of Viktor’s tongue. Viktor laughed, and he wrapped his arms around Yuuri, then, pulling him that much closer. “Is everything alright with you, then?”

      Yuuri closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look Viktor in the eye. “You can kiss me back a little harder, you know,” he mumbled.

      “What?” Viktor laughed, and Yuuri knew he’d heard properly. “I can _kiss you harder_? Is that what you said?”

      And suddenly Viktor was dropping Yuuri over his arm like a ballroom dancing dip, and Yuuri yelped, holding tight to Viktor’s shoulders. “Viktor!”

      Viktor was laughing; he pulled Yuuri out of the dip and spun him around the room a little, like a clumsy couple of waltz steps. It was his turn to mumble, though, repeating, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Yuuri, and I don’t want to scare you away.”

      “You won’t,” Yuuri said immediately, blushing a little about how certain he knew he sounded. But he _was_ certain – maybe it was too forward of him, but now that he knew Viktor wanted to be here with him, he couldn’t imagine being scared away.

      Viktor pressed a kiss to the tip of Yuuri’s nose. “I won’t?”

      Yuuri stretched up on his toes to put his forehead against Viktor’s, like he'd done several times before skating. It felt so much more intimate, now that it was the two of them in a quiet room instead of surrounded by screaming skating fans. “You won’t.”

      Viktor moved in first, this time, and there was something distinctly different about the way his mouth fit against Yuuri’s; Viktor seemed hungrier, more intense. And Yuuri felt it all the way in the tips of his toes – he arched against Viktor’s chest, letting Viktor hold more of his weight, and when Viktor’s mouth opened against him, Yuuri let him in.

      They kissed like this for several minutes, pushing and pulling. Yuuri’s hand came up to card through Viktor’s hair and find a hold there; Viktor’s hand dropped from Yuuri’s waist to his hip, splaying his fingers over the top of Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri pulled back at that, surprise becoming a peal of laughter. Viktor looked chagrinned, but only until Yuuri reached back to find Viktor’s hand and move it lower to properly cup his buttock. Yuuri ran his other hand down Viktor’s chest, over the three-piece suit he still wore and pressing to find the muscles that were obvious beneath the expensive fabric.

      “You like my chest?” Viktor teased, his accent having become very thick.

      Yuuri ran his hand a little more forcefully over Viktor’s pectoral. “You like my ass.”

      It felt good to laugh, still so close against each other that it seemed their bodies moved as one. But Yuuri was becoming more and more aware that Viktor wore that suit, and Yuuri was in his Team Japan tracksuit. He fell back into kissing Viktor, but there was something more on his mind, now.

      “Viktor?”

      “Mmm?” Viktor had apparently discovered how their height difference lent itself so nicely to dropping kisses onto Yuuri’s neck.

      “Why don’t we – _oh_ – why don’t we take a break?”

      “Mmm? Whatever for?” Viktor said, raising his head slowly. His lips were puffy and starting to bruise. It was a distracting sight.

      Yuuri wrinkled his nose. “I’m still in my tracksuit, I’m sure I still smell like a sweaty old skate, too.”

      “No,” Viktor said immediately, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

      “Well maybe _you’re_ into the smell of skate boots, but I’m not,” Yuuri laughed, giving Viktor’s cheek a peck just because Viktor looked so adamant. “And aren’t you hungry? While I shower, why don’t you pick out something for us to do for dinner?”

      Viktor sighed dramatically, and his hold on Yuuri loosened. “I see, you’re already sick of me…”

      Yuuri laughed, pulling away properly and going in search of his bag. _Just this morning, I thought I’d be saying goodbye to Viktor as my coach… how wrong I was. I feel like I know him better than I ever have, now, and I’m more comfortable now than I feel like I’ve ever been._ To Viktor, he said, “Oh, you’re a drama queen. Think of it as our first date.”

      Viktor’s eyes definitely lit up at that.

      In the bathroom, Yuuri leaned over the counter to all but press his nose to the mirror. He looked different, and not just because his hair standing up and the puffiness of his lips screamed that he’d been making out with someone. He looked happier – relaxed. _When I open up, he meets me where I am._

 

      When Yuuri walked out of the bathroom after his shower, still toweling his hair, he was greeted with the smell of food. He hadn’t realized before, between his anxiety and kissing Viktor, how hungry he was, but now his stomach gave a loud grumble.

      “Ah, Yuuri,” Viktor called from around the corner, out of sight. The table against the far wall of the hotel room was covered in dishes. Yuuri raised his eyebrow at Viktor in askance. Viktor smiled, though from his fidgeting where he sat on one of the beds, Yuuri inferred that he was anxious. “I thought instead of going out, you might prefer eating in? Of course if you do want to go to a restaurant, we can send this back or maybe call Chris or Phichit to take it, but –”

      Yuuri cut Viktor off with a chuckle, coming to stand in front of where Viktor sat. “No, actually, this is perfect. Thank you, Viktor.”

      “Oh. Good, I’m glad,” Viktor said. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ordered lots of things…”

      “You’re so thoughtful. Thank you,” Yuuri said again, this time dipping his head to give Viktor a kiss, unhurried and maybe a little sloppy. _I can get used to this_ , Yuuri thought, smiling and flushing a little when he pulled away from Viktor. While Yuuri had been in the shower, Viktor had changed, too, and was wearing the loungewear he normally wore around Yu-topia (if he wasn’t in one of the inn’s jinbei).

      “Do you want to watch a movie while we eat?”

      Yuuri reached out to touch Viktor’s cheek, even as he was turning away to see what all Viktor had ordered for them. “Sure, why don’t you pick something?”

      “ _Anything_?” there was a teasing edge to Viktor’s voice, and when Yuuri looked over his shoulder, there was a devilish smirk on Viktor’s face.

      “ _Wait_ , no – Viktor, stop laughing, oh my god,” Yuuri knew his cheeks were pink, but he was fighting his own laughter. “Uh, why don’t you just look at whatever old American movies are playing? There’s always some of those on demand.”

      He wanted to add as an extra caution some kind of reminder to Viktor of who was footing the hotel bill (Fukuyama’s _kaikei_ ), but there was still an unbroken spell keeping them both giddy and unburdened with the rest of their lives, and Yuuri was loathe to break it. Viktor didn’t notice anything different in the way Yuuri held his shoulders, and he didn’t ask any other questions as Yuuri fixed a plate for himself.

      Viktor obviously hadn’t forgotten that Yuuri needed to continue to maintain his weight; the dishes he’d ordered for them to share were all protein-rich or light salads and soups. Yuuri didn’t mind; he doubted he’d be able to eat much, in spite of being hungry, because he’d want to stare at Viktor all he could. It was almost like Viktor had arrived in Hasetsu, announcing that he’d be Yuuri’s coach, all over again – there was that sense of wonder and surprise all over again, like Yuuri was seeing Viktor new.

      Yuuri returned to Viktor’s side, holding two plates – one with mixed vegetables and fruit, one with ramen and shrimp. “Hungry?”

      “Oh, thank you, Yuuri!” Viktor said, scooting back on the bed and reaching for the ramen. Yuuri held it out of his reach, though.

      “You’re not eating in bed. I refuse to wake up with crumbs stuck to me.”

      Viktor was silent for a moment. His signature seductive smirk crept across his face, though, and he looked up through his eyelashes at Yuuri. “Does that mean you’ll share the bed with me again?”

      Yuuri felt his cheeks go pink. “Uh –”

      “Just teasing, Yuuri!” Viktor chirped, slipping off the bed to sit on the carpeted floor by Yuuri’s feet and reaching up again for the plate. This time Yuuri gave it to him, slowly lowering himself to the floor to sit next to Viktor. _What just happened?_

      Viktor had the remote, and he pressed a button to start whatever movie he’d selected, abruptly changing the subject. “This movie’s from the 80s, but it looks promising. It’s called _Dirty Dancing_ , have you seen it?”

      For a moment, Yuuri was back in Detroit, tipsy and attempting the famous lift with Phichit in their apartment. He shook the thought away, turned his attention to Viktor, who was watching him with those clear blue eyes. “Oh, yeah. Have you?”

      “Mm-mn.” Viktor shook his head. ‘Be My Baby’ by the Ronettes was starting to play; Viktor had taken the liberty of cranking the volume up, looking quite pleased with himself. _Oh, this should be interesting_ , Yuuri thought, looking from Viktor’s benignly smiling face to the opening montage of the familiar movie. He’d watched this dozens of times with Phichit, usually when one or both of them needed to have a good cry over Patrick Swayze’s arms.

 

      Viktor was the first to cry – Yuuri should have expected that. They’d started watching the movie on a pretty good note, with Viktor instantly confused by it being set in 1963 America, which he had good excuse to not know much about, and Yuuri describing and explaining what he could around bites of dinner.

      Viktor had sent Yuuri into a fit of laughter with an innocent enough remark that Baby’s dad looked like a Mafioso. “And they make it sound like she wants to date her dad, and like that’s common – is that common with Americans?”

      So for a while, this is how they watched the movie: trading quips back and forth, doing their best to make the other laugh out loud. Yuuri felt like he was back in college, and the weight of needing to win the Grand Prix Final or uphold the ninkyō dantai went on the back burner. Right now, there was only him and Viktor, eating a picnic of room service on the floor of their hotel room, watching Patrick Swayze in _Dirty Dancing_.

      “Did _you_ major in English?” Viktor asked Yuuri after Baby Houseman was asked the same question on screen.

      Yuuri knew Viktor was trying to joke, but he still felt remarkably like he was parroting the actress when he said, “No, I majored in business with a minor in political science,”

      When Baby carried the watermelon to the staff party and saw the ‘dirty dancing’, Viktor looked over at Yuuri with one eyebrow raised, his head tilted a little to the side (not unlike Makkachin was wont to do while trying to convince someone to share their dinner with him). “ _We_ could dance like that.”

      Whatever Yuuri was expecting, it wasn’t that. He nearly choked on the bok choy he was trying to eat. Swallowing and refusing to look at Viktor, he muttered, “We _could_ , but it’s more amusing if you watch the faces she’s making when Patrick Swayze’s character is grinding on her.”

      Their food was more or less abandoned after that, set aside on Yuuri’s bed while they both stayed seated on the floor. When Johnny was arguing with Billy and Penny about taking Baby on as a partner, Viktor chuckled darkly and pointed to the screen. “Иисус, it’s like when Yakov tried to tell me I couldn’t go to Japan to coach you.”

      Yuuri turned to Viktor, surprised. “Is that why Yakov won’t speak to you?”

      “It’s… it’s a little more than that.”

      Yuuri didn’t press Viktor for any more than that, but his mind had gone straight to the epaulette tattooed over Viktor’s right shoulder. Neither of them spoke until on screen Johnny was chastising Baby preemptively and Baby was arguing back.

      “He coaches like you, Viktor,” Yuuri said, giving Viktor a nudge with his shoulder.

      “Какие? Нет.” Viktor said, putting his hand over his chest in mock-outrage. Yuuri nudged him again, though, and Viktor laughed properly, the earlier tension forgotten. “Well,” he said after a moment, “at least I don’t go on about having personal space.”

      “You? Yuuri said, pretending to be surprised, “Personal space? No, never!”

      That earned him a drawn-out “ _Yuuri_!” as Viktor tackled him to the ground to wrap tightly around him. Yuuri laughed and didn’t truly fight to get out of Viktor’s grasp.

      “Watch the movie, silly,” he said, squeezing Viktor back. Viktor only buried his face in Yuuri’s chest, cheek resting on top of the koi, mumbling in Russian. “Come on, this is a good montage! Viktor… do you want to try to dance their routine?”

      That got Viktor to sit up, at least, and look over his shoulder at the TV screen. “Alright, but who leads?”

      Yuuri let Viktor lead, and while they both had training in ballet, ballroom dancing was something of a lark for them. They shuffled their steps, each trying to watch the screen and each other simultaneously. Like Baby did, Yuuri did step on Viktor’s toes more than he meant to, but Viktor didn’t seem too upset by that. He held Yuuri’s waist in a way that was distracting, tighter and more restrictive than it would be if they were trying to dance for real. Yuuri wasn’t going to correct him, though. Their dancing slowed quickly when the speaking lines came back between Johnny and Baby. Viktor and Yuuri watched the screen, still holding each other like they might step off into a waltz.

      “I like this song,” Yuuri muttered into Viktor’s chest when [Overload ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qE6JceWZKfI)by Zappacosta came on. When Viktor hummed in agreement, Yuuri felt bold enough to press a little closer, standing on his toes, to whisper, “I like this _scene_.”

      Viktor smiled at him, a smile that reached all the way from his heart-shaped mouth to his sparkling eyes. Yuuri couldn’t help but sway a little against him, put his hands on Viktor’s shoulders and move him, too. It wasn’t long before they were dancing again, even with Yuuri’s bruised feet and sore muscles from the competition. He wanted to do this, wanted to dance with Viktor.

      “Maybe we should find a fallen log like that to practice on,” Viktor said, watching Johnny and Baby dance on a log over a river from over Yuuri’s shoulder.

      Yuuri rolled his eyes. “What for, I’m balanced. And they’re talking about lifts, anyway.”

      Viktor was silent again, and Yuuri wondered if he’d been too brusque. But then Viktor tilted his head to the side again and said, “What if we did something with lifts, then?”

      Yuuri looked at Viktor for a good several heartbeats, the movie playing on behind him. Then he laughed. “Viktor, you’re wild. _Wild_.”

      Viktor was distracted by the movie, though, and Yuuri didn’t have to puzzle out the ways that Viktor might be serious. He pulled him down so they both were sitting once again, though both were breathing just a little harder than usual from dancing around for the prior fifteen minutes. Viktor rested his cheek against Yuuri’s head, hand resting on Yuuri’s thigh.

      It was when Johnny and Baby got back from their first performance and found Penny in bad shape that Viktor cried – he only sniffled a little, but Yuuri knew he was crying anyway. He just held onto Viktor a little tighter, and they sat in silence.

      Later, in a hoarse voice so soft it might have been Yuuri’s imagination, Viktor said, “I’ve seen things like that happen before. Not the – not the actual action, but the aftermath. Ballerinas, older skaters. Nasty business.”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say, so he just pressed a light kiss to the juncture of throat and collarbone right by his nose. “I’m sorry, Viktor. That must have been awful.”

      Viktor didn’t look away from the screen, was still under Yuuri’s hands. When Johnny told Baby she wasn’t scared of anything and Baby responded that she was scared of everything, Yuuri pressed his cheek a little more adamantly to Viktor’s chest. “That’s how I feel,” he whispered.

      Viktor didn’t give any indication that he’d heard Yuuri, just watched the movie. But when Baby got up and told Johnny to dance with her, Viktor’s hand found Yuuri’s jaw.

      “Mmm?” Yuuri looked up at Viktor, his eyelashes fluttering a little. He knew what was in store for this particular scene, but Viktor had never seen the movie – that didn’t seem to matter though. Viktor closed the distance between their mouths, and Yuuri leaned into him without hesitation. It was a little awkward, with them both sitting on their knees, turned halfway to one another, but they made it work. Slowly, Viktor leaned back until he was lying on the floor. His hands found Yuuri’s, and he pulled until Yuuri leaned down over him. Shivers of all kinds were rolling down Yuuri’s spine, and he arched his back a little against them, pressing his chest flush against Viktor’s.

      There was no rush, no pretense, just their mouths together, Yuuri’s hands in Viktor’s hair and Viktor trailing his fingers up and down Yuuri’s spine. Yuuri giggled a little around Viktor’s lower lip when Viktor brushed his fingertips against Yuuri’s ribs.

      “You’re ticklish?” Viktor asked thickly. Yuuri was inclined to ignore the question in favor of kissing Viktor harder, but Viktor ran his hands over Yuuri’s sides again and Yuuri couldn’t suppress a violent shiver.

      “Maybe,” he said, a little out of breath. Not really wanting to be tickled, though, he swung a leg over Viktor’s hips to straddle him and thus kiss him better.

      “Fuck,” Viktor gasped when Yuuri leaned over him like that. He didn’t try to tickle Yuuri any after that, just planted his hands right at the base of Yuuri’s spine. His next trick was slipping his hands under Yuuri’s shirt where it had ridden up in the back and slowly working the hem up.

      “ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri warned, his mind automatically going to the koi tattoo that would be all but staring Viktor in the face.

      “Yuuri,” Viktor said back, more a whine than anything. “You’re so beautiful, please don’t be ashamed of your body, please. Not with me.”

      Yuuri was tempted to argue that that wasn’t at all what he was thinking, but then he’d have to explain why he’d been so secretive about the tattoo. That just didn’t seem appealing. What _did_ seem appealing was continuing to make out with his dream guy, who he literally had flat on his back. So while he huffed an irritated groan at Viktor, he let him peel his shirt off. Yuuri sat up a little, resting back on Viktor’s hips, and raised his eyebrows at Viktor.

      “Боже мой,” Viktor whispered again, running his eyes hungrily over Yuuri’s body. Yuuri tried not to squirm, acutely aware of where he was positioned, but it was difficult. Viktor’s hands ended up on Yuuri’s waist, his thumbs rubbing absent circles on Yuuri’s stomach. “Oh, Yuuri, you’re gorgeous,”

      “Viktor,” Yuuri tried to argue, blushing violently. He didn’t know what exactly to say, though; with Viktor looking so intently up at him, the words just wouldn’t come.

      “And your tattoo,” Viktor continued, moving one hand to trace along the lines of the waves surrounding the koi. “This is why you haven’t joined me in the hot springs.”

      It wasn’t a question; Yuuri didn’t confirm or deny this. His own hands were resting, palm-down, on Viktor’s chest. He tensed his fingers just enough that Viktor, looked down, too. Something minute changed in his eyes, which darkened even more when Yuuri said, “You’ve got your secrets and I have mine.”

 _Dirty Dancing_ was still playing, forgotten, on the TV behind him. But with the way Viktor’s jaw was starting to set, it didn’t look like there would be much more making out on the floor. Unsteady on legs that were numb from being bent over Viktor, Yuuri got to his feet and offered a hand down to Viktor, like had become more habit than anything else. Viktor stared at Yuuri’s hand and for a horrible moment Yuuri thought Viktor might be upset enough to ignore it. He took Yuuri’s hand, though, and stood.

      “That’s true,” Viktor said, standing so close that his chest brushed Yuuri’s with each breath. “I hope one day things won’t be so complicated, though.”

      Yuuri could only nod silently. When Viktor’s hands found the small of Yuuri’s back, Yuuri leaned against Viktor again and let him hold him.

      “I think I’ve lost the plot of the movie,” Viktor said after a moment.

      Yuuri chuckled, though he knew that the absence of real mirth was obvious. _I hope one day things won’t be so complicated – does he know? And if he does, how can that ever be?_ Out loud, he said in a forcefully light voice, “You can stream it while we’re on the plane home, then. It’s worth watching all the way through, anyway.”

      Viktor dropped a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. “Brilliant idea, pыбка.” Not a moment later, though, he was slipping out of Yuuri’s arms. “I know you like to stay up late, but why don’t you get to bed? I’m going to shower.”

      Yuuri looked over at the bed he’d been sleeping in, which still had their dinner plates on it. Viktor noticed this, too, and laughed, hot and close. “Is my bed still okay for you?”

      “As long as you still want me,” Yuuri said without thinking much about it.

      Viktor sighed and pressed his forehead down on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Always, pыбка, I want you always.”

      When the movie was turned off and Yuuri was settled in the bed, he could hear the shower come on in the bathroom. Yuuri really was more tired than he normally was at this hour, and he knew there was a very real chance he’d be asleep by the time Viktor returned to him. Just as he was beginning to drift off to sleep, though, he could swear he heard the unmistakable sound of Viktor speaking rapid-fire Russian to someone… but sleep already had Yuuri in her clutches, and he lacked the energy to really do anything about it. And like he’d expected, he was asleep before Viktor came to join him in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know that one gif of the kid putting on lipgloss? That's literally me rn because this chapter is so self-serving but like,,, I knew I had to do it. Also if I could add those smiling halo emojis I really would.  
> It's been a while since I last tossed a mafia term in here to be explained, but here it is:  
> Kaikei - accountants working directly with the saiko-komon, or administration, of a yakuza
> 
> Do you guys have any ideas about what's hinted at in this chapter? Either way, everything should make more sense soon ✨ Also, now that we're talking more about Yuuri's tattoo (and you guys will be getting better descriptors about Viktor's), I think it's time that I put together a reference page with the drawings I've done so that y'all have an idea of what the hell I'm talking about! Expect it with the next chapter.
> 
> As always, thank you x1000000000 for reading and leaving feedback. You can find me anytime on my [YOI tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) ❤️


	11. I Don't Mind If You Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor return to Hasetsu before the Rostelecom Cup, but Yuuri is still learning where his and Viktor's relationship stands, exactly. Viktor needs to get some things off his chest before bringing Yuuri to Russia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out like 20% angst 80% fluff, IF that. You can read it as having more fluff or more angst tbh. Fluff with Lots of tattoo talk ;)
> 
>  
> 
> title from "Read My Mind" by the Killers (my favorite version is the Catfish and the Bottlemen cover)

      The days spent at Yu-topia between flying to different competitions to compete were usually flurries of doing laundry, skating, and sleeping. The three days between flying to Japan from Beijing and then turning around to fly to Moscow were no different. What was different, this time, was that Viktor was by Yuuri’s side – and now that they’d kissed on national television, they saw no real need to let go of each other.

      Unspoken, though, there was budding tension. Yuuri couldn’t be _certain_ of its origins, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the night he and Viktor had watched _Dirty Dancing_ in Beijing, when Viktor seemed to make a phone call in Russian while Yuuri was falling asleep in the other room. It had been right after Viktor had gotten a very good look at Yuuri’s hikae irezumi piece. Not many outside of his family knew of its existence, and Yuuri’s skin prickled with discomfort at the idea that Viktor might have called someone in Russia to tell them that he though Yuuri might be a part of a yakuza. Of course, Yuuri had done pretty much the same thing with his own higher-ups after realizing that Viktor was potentially bratva.

      Viktor didn’t mention anything about Yuuri’s koi tattoo, or any of _his_ , for that matter. The only indication that he truly processed its existence was that instead of calling Yuuri by a litany of Russian endearments like he had been for months, Viktor called Yuuri _pыбка_ – a diminutive pet name from the word _fish_ , something that seemed all the more pointed now that he’d seen Yuuri’s koi tattoo.

      On the tenth, they had a mid-afternoon flight from Beijing to Japan, and after customs and baggage claim, they didn’t arrive in Hasetsu until the early morning hours of the eleventh. Yuuri didn’t even bother concealing that he was sharing Viktor’s room, like he had before the Cup of China (which was a joke in and of itself – the entire Katsuki family, as well as Yuuri’s friends, had known for the better part of a month _exactly_ where Yuuri had been sleeping). He and Viktor greeted Hiroko and Toshiya and trudged up the stairs with Makkachin following closely to collapse into Viktor’s bed, quite tangled in each other, and nap until lunch time.

      When Yuuri woke, Viktor had been awake long enough to rummage a book out of the carryon he’d used on the plane. Viktor wasn’t reading, though; he’d settled back into bed next to Yuuri with the book resting on his chest, apparently preferring instead to watch Yuuri sleep. Makkachin was curled up over Yuuri’s back, his nose resting in the crook of his neck. It was this, Makkachin’s cool nose and occasional small licks to the back of Yuuri’s neck, that roused him from his nap.

      “Mm, Vik- _tor_ -u, stop it,” Yuuri mumbled sleepily into the pillow, eyes still closed.

      Viktor had been deep in a reverie, watching Yuuri, but this was enough to make him snap guiltily to attention. But Yuuri wasn’t looking at him – he seemed more or less asleep. And when Makkachin continued to nuzzle Yuuri, Yuuri rolled over and slowly opened his eyes. This action, of course, tipped Makkachin ungracefully off of Yuuri’s back and onto the other side of the bed.

      Yuuri yelped in surprise, turning first to look over and ensure that Makkachin was alright and then whipping around to see that Viktor was watching him with the expression of just having been caught in doing something secret. Yuuri’s cheeks were pinking rapidly; with the weight over his back and the scent of sandalwood and rose so close to him, his subconscious had interpreted everything as Viktor being the one pressing kisses to the back of his neck. A small smile was creeping across Viktor’s lips, though, and Yuuri couldn’t help but feel like he was being laughed at. Trying not to get irritated right as he was waking up, Yuuri made himself look away and take a deep breath. Traveling always put him out of sorts, even if it was only a few hours off.

      “I’m going to go see about doing laundry,” he muttered, still looking away from Viktor and heading for the door.

      “Wait!”

      Yuuri froze. He hadn’t expected Viktor to say anything. He waited, though, and Viktor clambered out of the bed and stumbled across the room to stand in front of Yuuri by the door. _Is he going to hand me a bag of dirty laundry and ask me to wash that, too?_ Yuuri wondered. No. Instead, Viktor’s hands found Yuuri’s, and he held them against his own chest even as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Yuuri’s cheek.

      “Did you have a good nap?”

      That wasn’t at all what Yuuri had expected, and his cheeks started to warm up again. This casual affection – he was horribly unfamiliar with it, much less receiving it from someone he’d been in love with for years and years. Love – _love_. How could Yuuri hope to respond properly, when he surely felt stronger than Viktor did? And it was probably glaringly obvious, and – and Viktor was watching Yuuri still, a flicker of concern coming into his eyes. Yuuri swallowed his pounding heart and rocked onto his toes to return a small cheek kiss to Viktor.

      “I, uh, _did_ , yeah. Did _you_? I hope I didn’t wake you up…”

      Viktor smiled, though more with his eyes than his mouth. “No, pыбка. I woke up just because my body decided it was rested enough. I was going to read, you know,” Viktor released one of Yuuri’s hands to gesture behind them to where the abandoned paperback sat on the bed, “but I was distracted. You’re so beautiful, Yuuri, even when you sleep.”

      Yuuri squirmed and thought of turning away, but with Viktor still holding his hand, it was easier to bury his face in Viktor’s chest instead. Viktor chuckled, a rumble Yuuri could feel as well as hear, and patted Yuuri on the back.

      “One day, I hope, you’ll believe me when I say that.”

 

      There was time before dinner to soak in the onsen, Hiroko told Yuuri when she took the basket of dirty laundry from him. Yuuri looked away from his mother immediately. She knew perfectly well that Yuuri hadn’t ventured into the onsen with Viktor once in the months now that Yuuri had been living with them. But she’d seen the kiss on TV just like the whole family and thousands of others had.

      “I won’t tell you what to do, Yuuri,” she said, obvious fondness in her eyes as she smiled up at her son. “The private pools are free of customers, though. _If_ you or Vicchan is interested.”

      Yuuri stammered his thanks to Hiroko and nearly walked head first into a wall when he turned to stagger back upstairs. He felt like he’d been tricked by a fox; what had just happened? _God, why do I feel like she and Phichit would get along like no ones’ business? Trying to get me to bathe with Viktor… I wonder if Phichit didn’t find her phone number and ask her to suggest that,_ Yuuri thought distractedly. Of course, he realized with a twinge or irritation, it wasn’t a half-bad idea. He’d been craving a good soak in the natural hot spring, anyway – there was no comparison between a bathtub and the onsen. The trick would be finding a tactful way to ask Viktor if he fancied a soak in the hot spring with him. He was tempted to go ahead and text Phichit, who had played wingman to Yuuri throughout their shared college career, but quickly nixed the idea – Phichit had a penchant for lewd remarks delivered with a wink and a grin, and that really wasn’t what Yuuri needed right now.

      Back inside the room, Viktor was sitting on the floor with his legs straight out in a right angle and his back against the edge of the bed, reading. Makkachin was curled between Viktor’s thighs, his head resting on one of his knees. Since they’d returned from Beijing, Makkachin had scarcely left either of their sides, and it made Yuuri feel guilty when he thought about the plane he and Viktor would be taking to Moscow in no more than 48 hours.

      Viktor looked up at Yuuri, blinking his brilliant eyes as if to adjust them to looking at a person rather than pages of cramped text. “Yuuri! You’re back, I thought you’d be doing laundry for longer,”

      “Oh, sorry,” Yuuri mumbled, misunderstanding.

      Viktor was on his feet in an instant, all in one fluid motion that belied some background in ballet. “Don’t be sorry, pыбка! It means you returned to me sooner, which is one of the best things possible,”

      Yuuri’s cheeks flared with warmth, but he didn’t try to bite back his smile. _Viktor’s such a dork, he's nothing like I was afraid he might be, all those months ago... I'm so lucky._  Yuuri knelt down by Makkachin and whispered to him in Japanese, “Your papa is a _sap_ , did you know, Makka-Makkachin?”

      Makkachin gave a little bark, like he understood exactly what Yuuri had said.

      Viktor bent to press his cheek against the top of Yuuri’s head. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he said, drawing the middle of his name into a long whine, “are you making fun of me to my own dog?”

      Yuuri turned his head so he could stretch up a little and kiss the tip of Viktor’s nose. “I didn’t say anything mean – or untrue. And didn’t you hear Makka? He _agreed_ with me.”

      Viktor tried to pout, but he gave up in favor of laughing and dropping to the floor adjacent to Yuuri, propping the novel he’d been reading open on his knee and reaching out to scratch Makkachin’s back with both hands. Yuuri had a clear view of the novel’s cover – it was a paperback, like most of the books Viktor had had sent over from St. Petersburg, and instead of a title written with Cyrillic lettering, Yuuri was surprised to see that it was in French: _Les Misérables,_ with a subtitle and accolades also in French.

      “Oh,” he said, moving his hand from Makkachin’s head to tap the book’s worn cover. “I didn’t know you could read something like that in French.”

      Viktor’s eyebrows shot up a little. “Je parle couramment le français, bien sûr.“

      Makkachin didn’t care about the effect hearing that had on Yuuri; he insistently pushed a paw onto Yuuri’s knee and whined, demanding more scratches. Numbly, Yuuri obliged. “That’s… I had no idea. Where’d you learn?”

      Viktor smiled, apparently able to figure out what was going on in Yuuri’s mind. “Not from Christophe, though it did help when we first became friends. No, my grandmother was French so my mother grew up speaking it, and as she was a ballerina, she was taught French as a course at the academy. When I was young, we spoke as much French as Russian at home.”

      This was some of the most Yuuri had ever heard Viktor talk about his childhood, much less his mother. _A ballerina, no wonder he’s so graceful_ , Yuuri thought. “Your childhood sounds fascinating,” he said to Viktor, “I hope you’ll tell me more about it sometime.”

      Viktor’s smile had become thin when he mentioned his mother, and he was looking down at Makkachin, who had rolled onto his back and fallen asleep. “Yes, I will. Sometime.”

      Yuuri took a deep, steadying breath. This was a good a time as ever to ask, right? “Um, Viktor, d’youwannagosoakintheonsenwithme?”

      Back was Viktor’s politely perplexed face, blinking wide eyes at Yuuri. “What?”

      “Um,” Yuuri put a hand over his face, frustrated. Why was this so hard? They slept in the same bed, they went everywhere together, their first meeting had even been with Viktor completely naked – and Yuuri had even seen Viktor in a mud mask. _This still feels like the most intimate thing I’ve asked of him_. “Do you –”

      Viktor gently pried Yuuri’s hand away from his face, holding it loosely in his own. Makkachin, waking briefly, put his head over Yuuri and Viktor’s intertwined hands as if they’d done so specifically to make a pillow for the poodle. Yuuri focused on the dog and his hand held in Viktor’s.

      “Do you want to soak in the hot spring before dinner? My mom said that there isn’t anyone in the private spring right now, so…”

      Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand, prompting him to lift his chin and meet Viktor’s eyes. He was smiling, a sweet, honest heart shape. “Yes, pыбка, that sounds lovely.”

 

      Yuuri bolted through the required shower patrons of the onsen were required to take, not because he was trying to maximize his time in the hot spring with Viktor, but because he was anxious to get to the hot spring before him. Viktor was obviously comfortable with his body – and why wouldn’t he be? Years of skating at the top of the sport’s rankings meant that Viktor’s body was all graceful lines of muscle – and cared little about being modest. Yuuri, on the other hand, hadn’t even taken his shirt off in front of Viktor in the several months they’d been living together – mostly due to the tattoo, but also because his hips and sides had a myriad of stretch marks from gaining and losing weight, and even at his fittest there was still some cellulite around Yuuri’s butt. And now they were finally going to bathe together in the onsen, and as much as the prospect excited Yuuri, he still felt considerably on edge about the whole thing. 

      There was no one else between the showers and the private part of the onsen; there was no need for Yuuri to cover up his tattoo, only to wrap a towel around his waist and walk carefully over the slick tile to the hot spring. Viktor was close enough behind him, close enough that Yuuri felt obligated to hold the door for him but not to hang around and chat. Setting his jaw like he was preparing to skate a difficult program, Yuuri ignored Viktor’s prattling on about the color of the sky and marched almost to the edge of the main pool before dropping his towel and slipping into the water. 

      Yuuri could hear Viktor’s laughing, carefree speech break abruptly in a sharp inhale right around when Yuuri dropped his towel, but he pretended he hadn’t, after all – it still seemed like a joke, that Viktor was attracted to him. Instead, Yuuri paced across the pool to the lean against the opposite wall and sink down so the water just met the middle of his chest. He tried not to watch as Viktor set his own towel aside with a kind of flourish several paces from the pool’s edge and strode fully naked the rest of the way over.

 _What’s it like to be so comfortable with the way you look and the way others see you that you can walk naked like that through a public place?_ Yuuri wondered. Part of him was glad, though – the setting sun played with the platinum of Viktor’s hair and colored it like a painting; even after a summer outside in the South Japanese sun hadn’t made his skin much darker than the cool alabaster he’d arrived with. Viktor’s tattoos stood out starkly against the rest of him, all of them done only with black ink. From the epaulette on his right shoulder, down his chest by the backwards Cyrillic and five-rayed sun, the leaping deer, the almost-forgotten cross that took up a good portion of his right-side ribcage, all the way to the hand and rose below Viktor’s navel – his tattoos seemed to scream that they had stories, and Yuuri was dying to know them.

      By this time, it was obvious that Yuuri was staring, and Viktor gave him a satisfied smirk as he lowered himself into the hot spring. “Like what you see, pыбка?”

      Yuuri thought he was going to explode. “No! I mean – I wasn’t – I mean, I do – but like – _Viktor_! Stop laughing!”

      Viktor had thrown his head back to laugh, exposing the long line of his throat. “I’m sorry I tease, Yuuri,”

      “No, you’re not,” Yuuri grumbled, crossing his arms. He wasn’t really irritated, but it was amusing all the same when Viktor’s demeanor immediately shifted.

      “Do you want me to make it up to you?”

      Yuuri froze. He’d been fixing to reach out and poke at Viktor’s tattoos, to tell him that _that_ was what was interesting, _obviously_ , but the words died in his throat. Viktor’s voice had gone serious and he was leaning toward Yuuri, expression sobered and earnest. Yuuri didn’t know what to say; he stuttered a string of incomprehensible syllables before Viktor took pity on him with a sweet smile.

      “I’ve seen the state of your feet, you know,” Viktor said, still looking oddly serious. “Will you forgive me for teasing if I give you a foot rub?”

 _Did he just… he wants to give me a foot rub?_ Yuuri blinked at Viktor and thought seriously about declining the offer. But Viktor had a point – though Yuuri was too proud to limp, his feet had taken a beating from hours upon hours spent in skates.

      “Um, alright then,” Yuuri said, resisting the urge to ask if this would be something to be expected every time Viktor intentionally made Yuuri blush.

      There was something about the way Viktor moved through the water to sit on one of the underwater ledge benches next to Yuuri that immediately gathered low in his gut. It was almost predatory, like some big jungle cat slinking toward prey - but Yuuri wasn't _scared;_  no, he was on fire. Viktor could make the most mundane things seem intense, sexual. Yuuri was almost afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what Viktor would see there. But he raised his chin, anyway, to meet Viktor’s gaze as he sat properly next to Viktor instead of simply leaning against the edge of the pool. 

      With obvious caution, Viktor leaned forward, stretching a hand out underwater for one of Yuuri’s feet. Yuuri did his best to pretend this was a perfectly normal occurrence; he stretched his leg out so his ankle could settle in Viktor’s hand. Viktor smiled in a benign sort of way, looking at Yuuri through his eyelashes as underwater he began to knead along the bottom of Yuuri’s foot.

      “What’s on your mind?” Yuuri found himself asking.

      Viktor tilted his head to the side, letting his bangs fall, for once, out of his eyes. Yuuri thought fleetingly of the contrast of Viktor’s appearance now to the image that had made him famous back in his junior days – long, shining hair, always pulled away from his face in a neat ponytail or braid.

      “I was thinking about the colors of your tattoo,” Viktor said, drawing Yuuri’s eyes from his hair and back to his face. Yuuri opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure whether to demand why or demur; Viktor’s smile widened knowingly, and he leaned forward a little to cut Yuuri off. “It’s really a lovely piece, and in the sunset it’s a work of art – very fitting for you, you know. I’m impressed that you hid it from me for so long.”

      Yuuri bit his lip. _Is he upset that I never told him? Or is he fishing for things to report to the other Russians about?_ He glanced down at his tattoo (what he could see of it, as the full piece capped his shoulder and extended under his arm to fully cover his pectoral), though a good portion was distorted by water. To his surprise, he found himself telling Viktor, “It’s only been colored in a little longer than you’ve been in Hasetsu. I actually went in to have it finished right after Yurio went back to Russia.”

      Viktor raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised. “You did?”

      “Yes,” Yuuri said, biting his lip against a chuckle. “You accused me of having a secret lover. I couldn’t exactly tell you I’d blown off an evening in the hot springs for you to lay on the floor and be tattooed by an old man, could I?”

      Viktor blinked, apparently trying to figure out what to say. But his smile crept back, and he brought one hand out of the water to ruffle Yuuri’s hair. “You _could’ve_ ,”

      “No,” Yuuri argued, laughing and splashing a little water onto Viktor as he shoved Viktor’s bangs back. For a moment, it was like seventeen-year-old Viktor was staring back at him. “I bet if I’d told you that, you would think I was making up some kind of lie.”

      “I _guess_ ,” Viktor pouted, but Yuuri knew he agreed.

      Partially in effort to keep Viktor from getting any poutier, Yuuri said, “The koi was red, originally.”

      “Really? Why’d you get it blacked out?”

      Yuuri shrugged. “My artist watched the Hot Springs On Ice skate and told me I was better suited to a black koi; it has a different meaning. Red koi represent love and masculine energy and black koi represent a major change, often one with tribulations. He kept some of the red in the scales, though. I like it.”

      Viktor leaned forward, squinting at Yuuri’s chest. After a moment, he sat back and returned to massaging Yuuri’s foot. “Yes, I think it suits you.”

      Yuuri didn’t need Viktor’s approval on what he did with his body off the ice – he didn’t need anyone’s; his body was his own – but still, it made him feel a rush of pride and contentedness to hear Viktor say that he thought the koi and its dual colored scales suited him.

      After a moment more on Yuuri’s right foot, Viktor shoved it back. “Other one?”

      It didn’t feel as awkward to Yuuri, stretching out his other foot for Viktor to rub. Really, Viktor was quite good at this. They lapsed into silence, but it was comfortable. The sun had set almost fully and the outside lights were coming on all around the inn. They, too, made Viktor glitter and glow like some kind of magical being. _And who’s saying he’s not?_ Yuuri thought, smiling to himself.

      “Do you think mine suit me, pыбка?”

      “Hmm?” Yuuri looked up from where his eyes had wandered down to the antlers of the tattooed deer on Viktor’s stomach just poking out of the water. Viktor was watching him again, a strange light in his light eyes.

      “My tattoos,” Viktor clarified. His bangs had flopped back over his eye; he jerked his jaw with an air of irritation, flipping them back (though they soon returned over his eye, anyway). “Do you think they suit me?”

      Yuuri hesitated, thrown by the intensity in Viktor’s gaze. There seemed to be a definite answer Viktor was after, and Yuuri didn’t know it was. Cautiously, he said, “Well, they surprised me. I’ve seen pictures of you for years, watched you skate for even longer, and I’d never seen them.”

      Viktor’s lips were pressed into a line, but he didn’t say anything.

      “I think, though, I was just as surprised that you were here at all, never mind that you have tattoos.” _And you were naked as the day you were born, soaking in this very hot spring_ , Yuuri didn’t add. Viktor still didn’t say anything, apparently intent on working out the knots of muscle in Yuuri’s foot.

      Yuuri tentatively reached out to trace his finger along Viktor’s right collarbone, following its line to the edge of the epaulette tattoo on Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor had gone very still, and didn’t look up to meet Yuuri’s eyes.

      “Do you know what that tattoo means?” he asked softly.

      Yuuri didn’t, but he’d seen it on pictures of men in soviet-era prisons. He had some idea. To Viktor, he said, “No, and you don’t need to tell me if you’d rather not. I’m not asking you to.”

      He ran his forefinger down from the epaulette to the line of Cyrillic across Viktor’s pectoral. _It’s interesting,_ Yuuri thought, _that his tattoos are mostly on his right side and mine is on my left. It’s like we’re halves of a whole._ The thought struck something within him, and he quickly pushed it aside. This was no time for getting deep. Instead, Yuuri tapped the mirrored letters tattooed into Viktor’s chest. “What’s this say?”

      Viktor finally gave Yuuri another smile, this one cheeky and showing the hint of dimples. “Пусть любовь в.”

      “You’re not going to tell me in English?”

      “Oh, I mean _laisser l'amour dans_ ,” Viktor said, looking supremely pleased with himself.

      “ _Viktor_ ,”

      “That wasn’t it?” Viktor batted his eyelashes at Yuuri.

      “You know it wasn’t,” Yuuri said, doing his best to scowl. “It’s good that you’re so pretty, because you’re an ass sometimes,” he hooked the foot he still had resting on Viktor’s leg behind his thigh and pulling himself closer, purposefully splashing Viktor in the process.

      “Hey!” yelped Viktor, pointing up at a sign hanging on the fence around the hot spring pools. The sign had kanji that read ‘no splashing’. But his surprise melted away into a big grin. “You think I’m pretty?”

      Yuuri scooped up a handful of water and went to dump it down Viktor’s back, but ended up with his arms around Viktor’s neck instead. “An _ass_ ,” he repeated.

      Viktor’s face was very close to Yuuri’s. “What was that, now?” he asked. But when Yuuri opened his mouth to respond, Viktor covered his lips with his own. It wasn’t a very proper kiss, as Viktor was fighting a smile and Yuuri was torn between outrage and delight. Viktor wrapped his arms loosely around Yuuri’s waist, leaning forward to press their chests flush together. But Yuuri was already pulling away, splashing Viktor again with precise aim. Viktor shook the water out of his hair like a dog, spraying Yuuri with water. He cut along through the pool in Yuuri’s wake, capturing his waist once more.

      When Yuuri threw his head back, laughing, Viktor took the opportunity to pepper his jaw with kisses. He hadn’t seen Yuuri so relaxed, so smiley, in a long time – each peal of his laughter was like a gift Viktor was only too grateful to receive. Yuuri was holding Viktor’s biceps, hands splayed and steady. When he used his hold on Viktor to maneuver him into a proper kiss, Viktor shivered. He was almost certain it had something to do with the cool night breeze coming off the nearby ocean, but he preferred to think it was just the effect Yuuri had on him.

      How could he ever have imagined he’d end up here, happier than he’d been since he was a child, or even happier than he’d ever been in his life. And the man in his arms was a tattooed gang member, to boot! It was hard to think much about that, with Yuuri’s lips working insistently against Viktor’s.

      Making out with Yuuri could progress in a number of ways, all dependent on their individual restraint and better judgement. There wasn’t time, though, to push the idea of what was acceptable, because Yuuri was suddenly springing away from Viktor like he’d been burned. Somewhat alarmed, Viktor followed Yuuri’s wide-eyed gaze to the door that lead to the showers, where a man stood, looking equally surprised.

      “Yamamoto-san!” Yuuri gasped, immediately dropping in a bow, his nose nearly brushing the water’s surface.

      The man stepped more into the light, his eyebrows raised. Viktor edged away from Yuuri, who was apparently explaining himself in rapid-fire Japanese Viktor couldn’t even pretend to follow. The clean white towel the older man had wrapped around his waist did little to conceal the full hikae suit of tattoos inked into his skin. His whole body, save for his hands, feet, head and neck, and a strip down his torso was inked with colorful, dynamic patterns. It meant hours and hours of tattooing by any method, but if what Viktor knew of yakuza tattoos, all of this had been hand-poked, which meant the tattooing process was even longer and more painful. Viktor thought of his own tattoos over his torso, the sharp pain of needles in the thin skin over his ribs and the sensitive skin of his stomach. Whatever position this older man held in the yakuza, it was obvious he was a determined person, unafraid of pain. _Which is the whole point of criminal tattoos, isn’t it?_ Viktor asked himself, looking between Yuuri and the man.

      Yuuri turned to look at Viktor, and the laughter was gone from his face. “Dinner is ready by now. We should go shower.”

      Viktor nodded, concern flickering in his chest. He wanted to ask questions, but he knew better – even as an outsider, someone who didn’t understand anything at all about what kind of standing Yuuri was in with this obvious yakuza member – than to ask questions. He followed Yuuri quietly out of the pool, not even letting himself enjoy the sight of Yuuri’s perfectly shaped ass. As he passed by the man on the way to the showers, he could feel his gaze on his tattoos – and for only the second or third time, Viktor felt uncomfortable, if not regretted, his own suit of ink.

 

      The next morning, Viktor and Yuuri set off for Ice Castle Hasetsu for a pre-competition practice. It was almost like a regular training day, but the tension was back between them. Yuuri hadn’t said anything about the man who’d interrupted them in the onsen the night before. He’d practically avoided Viktor, disappearing into Mari’s room until midnight. Viktor had stayed awake, waiting for him – not to scold or even ask questions, but just to see Yuuri’s face before falling asleep.

      While he waited, he’d tried to keep reading _Les Miz_ , but he wasn’t at all in the mood for heartache, not with his own heart beating a stuttered beat just thinking of the way Yuuri’s face had changed so quickly, looking at the older man and his tattoos. Instead, Viktor fished out a copy of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ from his box of books – Metamorphoses and its nearly endless myriad of myths was something Viktor had turned to for years for inspiration in his skating, in pulling familiar stories and twisting them the way only he could to surprise and delight his audiences.

      That night, though, the myths rang bland and lacking. Viktor only wanted to see Yuuri’s face, and any inspiration he might need could be found there. In the end, Yuuri slipped into the bedroom looking pale and wan especially in the bedside lamp’s light.

      “I didn’t think you’d be awake,” he said, his voice peculiarly hoarse.

      Viktor wanted to ask questions, because he’d had more than enough time to think them up, but he refrained, instead flipping the covers back for Yuuri to climb into bed next to him. If Yuuri wanted to tell him, he'd tell him - wouldn't he? “Not for much longer, pыбка.”

      And Yuuri had folded himself into bed, back against Viktor’s chest with Makkachin leaving Viktor’s side to curl up against Yuuri’s stomach. Viktor dropped a kiss onto Yuuri’s shoulder and whispered _goodnight_ , but he’d fallen asleep before he could be sure if Yuuri said it back to him.

 

      But in the crisp, sunny morning, that tension was still there – and Yuuri wasn’t talking. He was distracted, that was painfully obvious from the way he was stepping out of jumps and Viktor was having to repeat almost everything he said twice. There wasn’t any point in chastising Yuuri when he had wound himself up like this, if the Cup of China had been any indicator. So when Viktor called Yuuri over and Yuuri skated to him looking wary, Viktor instead caught Yuuri’s hands in his own and put them around his waist.

      “Yuuri, pыбка,” Viktor said to him, putting his hands on Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri met his eyes, looking far more tired and worried than he should for a simple home practice. “I believe in you.”

      “What?” this had caught Yuuri off-guard.

      “I believe in you,” Viktor repeated. “I don’t know why you’re feeling off today, but please don’t. Every time you’ve skated so far in front of a crowd this season, they’ve loved you. As they should! You’re so talented, Yuuri, darling. You’re flubbing these jumps I know you know and can execute beautifully, and it’s because you’re thinking too much.”

      Yuuri opened his mouth like he wanted to argue with something Viktor had said, but instead, he skated a little closer to rest his cheek on Viktor’s shoulder. “I’m nervous about going to Russia.”

      “Why, pыбка?” Viktor asked, running his hands down Yuuri’s back in what he hopped was a soothing manner.

      Yuuri shrugged and pressed his face a little more insistently into Viktor’s shoulder, right over the epaulette tattoo. With a heavy exhale, he said, “I’m not sure. I skated there in 2012 for the first Grand Prix I qualified for, and I bombed my skate, it was awful…”

      “But that’s not it?” Viktor asked, wracking his brains – the Grand Prix Final was held in Sochi in 2012; he didn’t remember seeing Yuuri skate, but he _definitely_ remembered the banquet after.

      “No,” Yuuri said in a small voice. He turned his face so his mouth was almost pressed against Viktor’s neck, and Viktor was suppressing shivers like he had the night before in the onsen. “I think I just – with what I am, and how it’s all that much more clear than it was back then, I’m – I’m nervous.”

 _Is he talking about being attracted to men or being in a yakuza?_ Viktor wondered. He didn’t know how to tactfully ask Yuuri this, not without potentially taking a misstep and insulting him. Instead, he turned his head to kiss the closest part of Yuuri’s face (the corner of his jaw). “Don’t dwell, pыбка. Let’s run through the second half of _Eros_ one more time and call it a day, da?”

      Yuuri pulled away, but before letting go of Viktor fully, he raised his chin and gave him a proper kiss on the lips. Viktor smiled – this wouldn’t be a repeat of the mess before the free skate at the Cup of China. He and Yuuri were going to be on the same page this time.

 

      Their flight to Moscow was scheduled to leave at midnight from Fukuoka. They had time to finish repacking their bags and eat an early meal with the Katsuki family before taking a car into the other city. A little more than an hour before they needed to leave, Viktor caught Yuuri’s hand and asked him to take a walk with him. Yuuri was still feeling on edge from Yamamoto walking in on him making out with Viktor in the onsen, and he jumped at the chance to get away from sitting and stewing in his thoughts. Yamamoto wasn’t upset with Yuuri, anyway – he was surprised, that was all… and very interested in Viktor’s tattoos, which he’d seen for the first time.

      “Those aren’t tattoos worn by any old Russian thief,” Yamamoto had told Yuuri sternly. “Be careful, especially when you are in Russia to skate. You don’t know his turf or what grudges there may be held by those who know him. You may think you’re disposable, Yuuri-kun, but that’s not the case. Watch your back.”

      It was twilight, and the beach Viktor and Yuuri had walked to was deserted. Viktor let Makkachin off his leash, and the old poodle ran about 30 meters before deciding it wasn’t worth it and trotted back to walk alongside his people. Yuuri could tell Viktor had something to say from the way he kept opening his mouth and turning to him, but he didn’t say anything for a while. Finally, Yuuri took Viktor’s hand and squeezed it, saying much like he had the night before, “What’s on your mind?”

      Viktor took a deep breath. “So we’re flying to Russia.”

      It was a flat statement; Yuuri was unsure of how exactly to respond. “Yes?”

      “Moscow – it’s not my city, but an important one, anyway. My mother danced there, and so did Lilia – that’s Yurio’s choreographer.”

      Yuuri nodded and stroked his thumb over the back of Viktor’s hand.

      “I don’t want to alarm you, Yuuri,” Viktor said softly, and that made Yuuri stop in his tracks and hold his breath. “And I’m not going to ask questions, but… I think this is a subject we’ve been dancing around for a little while now.”

      Yuuri nodded again and forced himself to exhale, hold, and inhale. Viktor had turned to face him, studying what he saw reflected in Yuuri’s eyes. “I haven’t told you much about my life in St. Petersburg or my childhood, and that’s because it got very complicated very quick. But you’ve seen my tattoos now, and even though I’m not sure if you know what they each mean, I think you recognize them – like I recognize yours as yakuza.”

      Yuuri flinched. He hated the casual way Viktor said 'yakuza', like it wasn't representative of the worst hand you could be dealt, or an extreme way of living. He hardly ever referred to himself as ‘yakuza’ if he could avoid it, and it wasn’t a word often heard in his community. It softened the blow to think of the group as a _chivalrous organization_ – it didn't seem so inherently negative. But Viktor was watching Yuuri, probably holding his own breath, so Yuuri raised his chin and whispered, “Bratva.”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow – had he been expecting Yuuri to call it the ‘Russian mafia’ like he was some uninformed American? But instead of asking any questions, he simply nodded and repeated, “Bratva. Mine is one in St. Petersburg, not likely one you’ve heard of –” he broke off with something of a pained expression, and began again. “These things have hierarchies, yeah? Even among whole groups.”

      Yuuri nodded. The ninkyō dantai he was a part of wasn’t very large, and wasn’t exceptionally powerful like some of the organizations that controlled large sections of populous places like Tokyo or Kobe. The merger with the Detroit Partnership that they had tried to facilitate while Yuuri was in school hadn’t worked because of tension with other, more powerful, ninkyō dantai who had vested interest in the territory.

      “I’m not going to pry into your business activities, but I need you to be aware of the climate for Moscow,” Viktor continued, his voice serious and low. “I don’t expect anything to happen, so don’t get alarmed, but I’ve already asked Yakov to extend whatever protections he’ll have for himself (and Yurio by proxy) to you as well as me.”

      “Thank you,” Yuuri said – what else could he say? That Yamamoto had already offered to send a detail along as well, just in case?

      “Are you afraid?” Viktor combed his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, smoothed it back as best he could with the continuous sea breeze.

      “No,” Yuuri answered without hesitation. He _wasn’t_ – this was a little intimidating, sure, but he wasn’t _scared_. He tried to explain this to Viktor. “I’ve been in plenty of compromising situations before, Viktor. Honestly I’m more afraid that the Cup of China was a fluke and I’m going to have my ass handed to me on your home turf, and make _you_ look like an idiot, too.”

      Viktor abruptly pulled Yuuri into a tight hug, kissing the side of his neck where he’d tucked his face. “No,” he said in an even sharper voice than before. “Choosing you will never be a mistake, not for me. I have so much faith in you and your skating, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri brought his hand up to cradle the back of Viktor’s head, fighting a smile. He didn't really believe that, but the fact that Viktor would even say something like that made Yuuri feel like he'd been given a gift, or that he was living a dream come true, mafias or not. And before he could really think much about it, the words were spilling from his lips. “I love you, Viktor. I really, _really_ do. And not just because I’ve had posters of you in my bedroom since I was like fourteen. I love you, who you are – the fucking bratva and all. I love you.”

      Viktor raised his head from Yuuri’s neck and his eyes were so wide that in the moonlight they shone as silver as his hair. “You… love me?” he repeated.

      “I love you,” Yuuri repeated, the words finally sinking in to himself. He dropped his hands to Viktor’s shoulders. _I told him, I told him, I finally_ told _him. Please, oh please, let him say something kind. If he lets me down, let it be gently._

      “I told you that I’m... I’m ‘fucking’ bratva and you _love_ me?”

      The night was silent except for the rushing ebb and flow of the waves on the beach. Yuuri felt his lips grow hot. _Oh,_ no _. I’ve made a horrible mistake._

      But instead of turning away in disgust like Yuuri was certain he would, Viktor was closing the distance between them, reaching for Yuuri’s face and pulling their mouths together roughly. He kissed Yuuri like he hadn’t before: hot and needy, sloppy enough that their teeth bumped twice together. Yuuri felt like his legs were going numb from the intensity, but he didn’t want this to end, not ever. He leaned his whole body into Viktor, who pushed back so they were flush from chest to toe. After a minute, though, Viktor broke the kiss. He didn’t stray, didn’t pull any further away than to rest his forehead against Yuuri’s.

      They were both panting softly against each other; Viktor leaned back in and nipped a few sloppy kisses from Yuuri’s upper lip. Between them, he said, “I’ve waited for this day. My Yuuri, my pыбка, I love you, I love you so.”

      In that moment, Yuuri couldn’t think of anything as perfect as those whispered, broken words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful Vik, your thing for feet is showing...
> 
> If you're thinking, "hey the banquet where yuuri seduced viktor wasn't in 2012", I've got you. For this fic, I'm trying to use this timeline as far as dates etc go. Definitely check out yurikobutachan on tumblr, because it's their timeline! And it's absolutely fine if you don't agree with it, though, I just really needed dates for my personal outlines and this is [the best compiled timeline that I've come across](https://yurikobutachan.tumblr.com/timeline). I'm not using it as gospel, though. 
> 
> Last chapter I said I'd have an explanation of Viktor's tattoos put together, and [I do](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/vik-ink) \- it even features my own drawing of them lol  
> I spent several hours on this baby, as well as put together [a big page on my YOI tumblr specifically for this fic](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats). The Yuuri tattoo page isn't ready yet, as I'm trying to avoid spoilers ;) but as always, you can come to me with any and all of your questions and I'll do my best to answer them!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this chapter and any others, it means so much to me to be able to share this story. Comments and kudos make a huge difference in my day, too <3


	12. Don't Let Me Cave In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri fly to Moscow for the Rostelecom Cup, and amidst anxiety issues, hovering bratok, and the massive personalities of the other competitors the boys receive a call they never expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect some more Dirty Dancing references (there's a reason behind them, I promise).
> 
> Title is a direct reference to the song of the same name by The Wonder Years - if you'd like, ask in the comments and I'll give you a full insider's psychoanalysis as to why that song fits this chapter (and the foreshadowing for the next chapter) to a T.
> 
> Enjoy!

      There hadn’t been as much time to linger on the beach as Viktor would’ve liked. All too soon, the alarm he’d set on his phone was going off and he was reluctantly pulling away from Yuuri.

      “Time to go?” Yuuri asked softly.

      Viktor hummed his answer and kissed Yuuri one last time on the forehead. Before they could start walking back to Yu-topia, they had to convince Makkachin to move. The old poodle had settled in the sand while Viktor and Yuuri made out and had promptly fallen asleep. Yuuri followed Viktor’s gaze to smile fondly at the dog.

      “He’s such a great dog. It makes me miss my poodle.”

      Viktor nodded. “I got him as a gift when I turned fourteen. He’s been everywhere with me.” Makkachin must have sensed their attention on him, because he sat up and gave a wide yawn, thumping his tail enthusiastically against the sand. Viktor pulled his leash from his pocket and called Makkachin over. “Now Makka,” he said in a stern voice, “I tell you every time, but I’m telling you again now in case I forget later – no stealing food! Be a good boy for the Katsukis.”

      Makkachin continued to wag his tail.

      Yuuri reached around Viktor to ruffle the pouf of curls on top of Makkachin’s head. “He’s an old hat at this, Viktor, I’m sure he’ll be a model house guest.”

 

      Viktor had purchased their plane tickets himself – and Yuuri had to agree, if they were going to be on a flight lasting all day, he was just fine with flying first class. Even so, Viktor wasted no time in scooting as close to Yuuri as he could and pressing a kiss to his neck once they were seated and in the air.

      “Wanna make out?” he asked, mouth still against Yuuri’s neck.

      “Viktor!” Yuuri said sharply, surprised. To his relief, Viktor laughed.

      “It’s past _midnight_ , pыбка, I’m barely awake as it is,”

      Yuuri rolled his eyes but shifted in his seat so Viktor could lay against him. He was sure a flight attendant would come and fuss at them, but when they weren’t interrupted, Yuuri fell asleep stroking his fingers through Viktor’s hair.

 

      Sometime between Beijing and the flight to Moscow, Viktor had purchased _Dirty Dancing_. After asking Yuuri three times throughout the flight and agreeing to watch something of Yuuri’s choice ( _Howl’s Moving Castle_ ), Viktor finally got to finish the movie.

      He’d started to critique the fight between Johnny and Robbie, only to stop abruptly when he saw Yuuri’s raised eyebrow. _I almost wish he’d continue_ , Yuuri thought, blushing with the mental image of Viktor doing something like that – which was _asinine_. He didn’t want Viktor fighting, what was he thinking? Thankfully, Viktor was soon laughing into Yuuri’s shoulder over the scene where Lisa was rehearsing a song for the talent show. _I’m glad he’s not always nice_ , Yuuri thought, though he also had the impression that that might not be something he was always glad of.

      Viktor was silent for the majority of the movie, though, absently stroking Yuuri’s hand in his the whole time. Yuuri realized belatedly that this was because he didn’t know the movie and was genuinely afraid for the relationship of Baby and Johnny. This made Yuuri bite his lip against a smile. It was only at the very end that he perked back up, and a smile returned to his face.

      “What’s that mean, ‘nobody puts Baby in a corner’?” Viktor asked, scarcely looking away from Patrick Swayze in his leather jacket.

      Yuuri shrugged. “It’s something that people like to put on shirts, that’s all I know. And no, Viktor, I don’t want one – but thank you.”

      Watching the final dance scene sparked inspiration in Viktor, just like it had started to in the Beijing hotel room.

      “Yuuri, what if _we_ did a pairs routine?”

      Yuuri shifted to look Viktor square in the eyes. “Like if we learned the _Dirty Dancing_ dance?”

      Viktor pursed his lips. He didn’t want to take that idea off the table (because it sounded fantastic, if he was being honest), but that wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. “No, a pairs _skating_ routine.”

      Yuuri was quiet, but Viktor could tell from the look on his face and the way he hadn’t immediately vetoed the idea that Yuuri was considering it. “Okay, let’s say we do it – hypothetically, Viktor, let me think – when will we practice? Will there be lifts – who lifts whom? Would we ever skate this in… competition? No, that’s against rules…”

      Viktor shook his head. “Not _technically_ against the rules; men skate together all the time,” at Yuuri’s incredulous look, Viktor hurried to add, “Similar pairs can’t _compete_ , but they’re in exhibitions all the time.”

      “So what you want is to skate an exhibition?”

      Viktor looked down at the hem of his sweater, which he’d been twisting nervously between his fingers. “It would be nice, but that’s not my goal. I just want to _skate_ with you.”

      Yuuri was blinking hard when Viktor met his eyes again, but Viktor didn’t ask any questions and Yuuri didn’t elaborate. When he’d gotten enough of a handle on himself, he reached out to push Viktor’s bangs away from his eyes and kissed the tip of his nose.

      “Yes, then. Let’s do a pairs skate, Viktor.”

 

      It was late in the day when they arrived in Russia, feeling later still by the six-hour time difference between Fukuoka and Moscow. At the airport, Viktor spotted a man from his bratva, obviously sent by Yakov to ensure that he had arrived safely. Viktor gave the man a surreptitious salute, and the man disappeared, probably to get in his car and tail the taxi to the hotel. Even the taxi driver, upon some scrutiny, had the shifty, nervous demeanor you might see in someone after being told in no uncertain terms by a bratok not to put a toe out of line.

      Viktor was wide awake though Yuuri was dozing off in the taxi from the airport to the hotel. He’d already had to navigate a throng of screeching fans and press, all welcoming ‘Russia’s Hero’ home. Viktor didn’t _feel_ like a hero – and Moscow wasn’t his home. _And really,_ _at this point St. Petersburg is barely my home_ , he thought, _especially not with Makkachin in Japan. My home is by Yuuri’s side, anyway_.

      Normally in situations like this, Yakov handled checking the skaters into their rooms. It was a job Viktor took on now as Yuuri’s coach. But as he and Yuuri pulled their luggage from the boot of the taxi, Yuuri laid a cautious hand on Viktor’s arm. He seemed to be taking in the small crowd restrained by a disgruntled looking security guard and put two and two together.

      “You go talk to them, Viktor,” Yuuri said, and Viktor’s first thought was to argue. No, why should he go answer the endless, prying questions of strangers when he could be with Yuuri? He’d been on display for the public since he was a preteen (and earlier still if you counted the way press covering ballets tried to weasel the backstory of Bolshoi’s darling principle ballerina and her fatherless son from the Ballet’s spokespeopole); lately, though he’d been enjoying time out of the limelight, even as much as he loved and appreciated his fans.

      “Listen,” Yuuri said insistently, tapping Viktor’s chin with his forefinger. “You talk to them and I’ll check us into our room. When you finish with telling them whatever they want to hear, we can go relax – together – and not have to deal with any more of it.”

      Viktor’s heart swelled a little. _Yuuri is so smart, so thoughtful_. “You’re right, pыбка, we’ll do that. Just let me go along to tell the bellboys to take our things,”

      Yuuri rolled his eyes and turned toward the hotel, but he didn’t argue (which was just as well – one of these days, he was going to have to learn to accept being comfortable with extravagance, because that’s what Viktor intended to shower him with). Viktor shifted the bulk of the bags he carried so that he could catch up with Yuuri and hold his hand, balancing a coffee and his carryon in the other hand. Yuuri didn’t pull away until they walked through the heavy revolving doors of the hotel.

      Inside was a warm respite from the Russian November – it was about 0 degrees Celsius, rather an average temperature, but still much cooler than it had been on the beach in Hasetsu. And as Viktor had predicted, there was a small flock of press waiting to interview the skaters staying at the hotel. _Waiting to interview_ me _, more like_ , he thought.

      Viktor went with Yuuri to the check-in desk and was surprised to hear Yuuri ask, in a halting, timid voice, if there was staff that spoke English. He asked this in _Russian_. When the lady behind the desk nodded and answered promptly that she spoke English, Viktor didn’t have a chance to pull Yuuri aside and marvel over the fact. Really, all he had time to do was call over his shoulder to the clerk to have bellboys send their luggage up before Yuuri reached out and knocked Viktor’s sunglasses from their perch atop his head to sit down on his nose, giving him a pointed glance to the knot of reporters.

      Being interviewed wasn’t usually something that felt burdensome to Viktor; for the most part, he enjoyed it. There was a definite degree of theatre that went into giving a good appearance – Viktor had a smile reserved specially for the lenses of cameras, a tone of voice that could render some reporters breathy and bright-eyed, even if he’d said something nasty or backhanded.

      Once the press saw him approaching, they began to greet him with cheers and applause. Viktor gave him the cold smile he knew matched the pale color of his eyes, the one that had earned him a nickname of ‘The Ice Prince’. They ate it up; he was quickly surrounded in the familiar glow of flashbulbs, grateful for the sunglasses Yuuri had playfully knocked back into place for him.

      “Mr. Nikiforov, how does it feel to return to Russia as a coach?”

      “How does it feel to be competing against your former coach, Yakov Feltsman, and your former rinkmates?”

      “Mr. Nikiforov, your fans are dying to know – _when will you return to skating_?”

      Viktor looked around at the reporters eagerly shoving recorders and microphones under his nose. He smiled thinly. _You’ve spent more than a decade asking me these questions_ , he wanted to say, _it’s time to look at people more talented than me – it’s time to look at my Yuuri._

      “Until the Grand Prix series is over, I won’t comment on any future plans of mine.”

      There was a disappointed murmur, but at least half of the reporters still looked eager to hear what he had to say next. _Good, they_ should _be_. Viktor raised his chin and tried to channel the authority tattooed into his skin to his voice; he commanded their attention, even though his heart was with Yuuri, not being interviewed. _But I know he’s not going to talk himself up, so I will._

      “I see a lot of potential in Katsuki Yuuri’s skating – I think everyone should focus on him in the Rostelecom Cup.”

      One of the reporters, one Viktor recognized from years of past press meetings, smiled and nodded at Viktor, still holding her recorder out for him. “If this skater Katsuki has so much charisma to… hold your focus, don’t you want to face him as a competitor?”

      Viktor felt his own jaw slacken a little. _Fuck, I’ve been so focused lately on getting him ready for the Final…_ the thought had crossed Viktor’s mind before, that was true. But if he returned to skating, who would skate Yuuri? And Yuuri would no doubt feel like Viktor was leaving him, and that was the last thing Viktor wanted to do. A suitable answer wasn’t coming to mind, and Viktor could feel a spike of anxiety down his spine. His silence was getting uncomfortably long when movement caught his eye.

      Yuri Plisetsky was sneaking around the herd of reporters, but it was obvious (to Viktor, at least) that he’d been listening. And really, he could’ve blended in with the other skaters milling around the lobby, with his hood up and the bright color of his track jacket more or less similar to all the others. What sold him out was those horrible leopard-print shoes he insisted on wearing. Viktor smiled, and Yuri shrunk back into his jacket. He knew he’d been caught.

      “Hey, there’s Yurio!” Viktor said loudly, pointing so that all the reporters turned to watch.

      “He’s right…”

      “That’s Yuri Plisetsky!”

      Maybe it was a shadier move – judging from the grimace on Yuri’s face, he hadn’t wanted to be seen at all – but Viktor didn’t care. He crossed the tile of the lobby and pulled his sunglasses off. This would definitely be a front-page worthy photo, if Yuri fixed the dirty look on his face.

      Throwing an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and pulling him into a one-armed hug (skating magazines loved this kind of camaraderie, they ate it right up), Viktor fixed the reporters once again with his cool smile. “Did you all see the short program I put together for Yurio?”

      Yuri punched the coffee in Viktor’s hand, sending it spilling to the floor. _That little shit just cost me 310 rubles_ , Viktor thought, his smile twitching a little. _Not the reception I was expecting from the kitten,_ especially _if he’s been living with Lilia._

      “Quit acting like you’re still the top Russian figure skater,” Yuri hissed. “ _I’m_ the star in this event!”

_That’s it,_ Viktor realized, his smile becoming more delicate and artificial by the second. _He overheard me talking about how the focus should be on my Yuuri and he feels threatened._ Or _he wasn’t expecting me to still be called Russia’s Hero. He thinks I’m trying to take from him the only thing he has. Oh, Yurio…_

      Yuuri saw Yuri skulking around from the corner of his eye as he followed the bellboys to the elevator. He and Viktor had managed to bring enough with them from Japan that while the bellboys went on up to the room, Yuuri stayed behind to wait for another lift. It wasn’t too bad; this part of the hotel was quiet, calmer than the growing chaos in the lobby.

      The sound of footsteps on tile had Yuuri glancing around to his left. A young man about Phichit’s age was striding over with a duffel bag, pointedly not looking at Yuuri though he came to stand right next to him. _That’s Seung-gil Lee from South Korea_ , Yuuri realized. He’d seen him in pictures and once before in competition, but they’d never spoken. _Unlike with the Cup of China, there’s no one here that I’m friendly with._

      The elevator door opened with a ding, exposing them to the middle of an argument between two taller men, one of them clutching a girl to his side.

      “If you want to date my little sister,” the one with the girl was all but screaming in a heavily Italian accent, “you’ll have to beat me first!”

      The other man didn’t look perturbed, raising his eyebrows with a small smile. “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled, waving his hands placatingly.

      The girl looked bored, and as Yuuri watched she kicked at her brother’s instep and muttered something in Italian. Yuuri recognized them – these were the Crispino twins. He’d skated in juniors with Michele for a while after they moved from skating pairs to skating singles, and debuted in seniors the year before the twins. He could bet that Sara was telling Michele that she wasn’t really his _little_ sister; as his twin, she was only a few minutes younger and they were, what? Twenty-two now?

      Michele hadn’t relinquished his hold on Sara, who was now doing her best to push him away.

      “Mickey, calm down, it’s not even a date. We’re just going for a bite to eat.”

      The other man started to say something, but Michele released his sister and started to lunge for him. “Sara’s _leagues_ above any other woman, you idiot!”

      Yuuri looked between the three still standing in the elevator. Sara noticed him watching and slipped the rest of the way from her brother’s possessive hold on her and ignored the other man, who was still doing his best to soothe Michele.

      “Hi, Yuuri,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Yuuri blinked at her, unsure of what to say after what he’d just witnessed, but Sara didn’t seem to mind. She was already turning to Seung-gil and waving. “Hi, Seung-gil! Do you want to come with–”

      Seung-gil didn’t let her finish, just shouldered past her into the elevator. “No.”

      “ _Hey_ ,” admonished Sara, who wasn’t the sort of girl accustomed to being snubbed. “If you’re going to turn a lady down, can’t you be more considerate?”

      Seung-gil tilted his head to the side. “Do I benefit from being friendly with you?”

      Sara’s eyes went very wide. To Yuuri, she didn’t seem upset so much as very, very surprised. “ _Hey_!” she repeated.

      Michele was already crowding Sara to lean over Seung-gil, looking like he was on the brink of an aneurism. “How _dare_ you speak to Sara like that? Do you want a _smackdown_?!”

      Above him, Seung-gil was saying in a very even tone, “Can you step aside please?”

      Yuuri slowly backed away from the other skaters and pressed the button for another elevator. There was one already waiting, so he slipped inside with a breath of relief. But just as the doors were sliding shut, someone put their foot in and stopped the doors. Yuri leaned in, a hand on his hip.

      “Why are you sneaking around?” he asked, but his tone lacked his normal venom.

      “Yurio,” Yuuri smiled, genuinely relieved to see a familiar face. “It’s really good to see you again!”

      Yuri didn’t answer in favor of stomping into the elevator and punching his floor number – he was on level eight, and Yuuri and Viktor were on level nine. It looked like they’d have a long elevator ride to themselves. Yuuri wanted desperately to ask how Yuri was doing, to see what he’d been up to in the months since they’d last seen each other.

      Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. They only had three floors to go. “So, uh… good luck to us both in the upcoming skates,”

      For a moment, the silence became extremely brittle. And then Yuri was hissing, “ _What_? No.” When Yuuri looked over at him, he was wearing a terrible scowl. “You’re going to suffer a miserable defeat here in Moscow.”

      Yuuri fixed his own face into a benign smile – he should’ve anticipated this vitriol when Yuri was the most angsty teen he knew.

      “And then I’ll have Viktor stay in Russia,” Yuri continued. The smile slipped from Yuuri’s face.

_Right_ , he thought, his stomach seeming to fill with lead. _If I can’t rank higher than fourth in this event, I won’t make it to the final. And if I don’t, what will Viktor do?_

      Viktor woke Yuuri in the morning by pressing a sloppy kiss to his temple. This was, in Viktor’s experience, one of the more effective ways of rousing his sleeping beauty. The time difference between Russia and Japan helped, too. Yuuri’s eyes fluttered open and almost immediately he wore a frown. Viktor felt like an icy finger had been drawn along his spine, looking at the face Yuuri wore.

      “Good morning, pыбка,” Viktor whispered because he was afraid to raise his voice much, unsure of what kind of state Yuuri was in. Yuuri hummed his answer, but his frown stayed in place. He hadn’t moved much from where he’d fallen asleep against Viktor’s chest, but in the night Viktor had rolled onto his back, and they were no longer flush. Was this part of what was upsetting Yuuri? Cautiously, Viktor draped an arm over Yuuri’s side, right in the dip between his rib and hip. To his surprise – and relief – Yuuri rocked back into Viktor’s touch.

      “Are you alright?” Viktor asked after the silence had stretched on again.

      Yuuri sighed; Viktor had a hand on his chest, fingers absently stroking the koi, and he could feel Yuuri’s heartbeat accelerate. “I – I’m being silly, everything is fine.”

      Viktor could be obtuse at times, even _he_ knew that, but Yuuri was lying and that was clear. Far from being irritated like Viktor knew would’ve been his response with anyone else, all he felt was concern. Would he scare Yuuri if he told him that? He hesitated.

      “Рыбка? Yuuri? It’s okay if you’re nervous.”

      Yuuri started to sit up. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

      He wasn’t looking at Viktor, though, facing the window determinedly. It was very early in the morning, but the sun was already in the sky, and from where Viktor still lay, Yuuri seemed to glow from the light. He was shirtless, and Viktor reveled in the sight of Yuuri’s broad shoulders, the straight line of his spine, the muscles obvious beneath his skin. Even in the barest moments, he was beautiful. Yuuri’s shoulders raised and his ribs expanded as he took a deep breath, but he did not move from his perch on the edge of the bed.

      Viktor reached for him. “Yuuri, it’s early.”

      Yuuri pulled away like a reflex, and Viktor blinked with surprise. But after a moment Yuuri took another deep breath and scooted back into bed, finally turning to look at Viktor. There were circles under his eyes; it didn’t seem like he’d slept much at all.

      “Um, Viktor? Do you remember how at the Cup of China you said that you often would sleep in late before competitions?”

      Viktor let his face relax. He nodded and lifted the sheets so Yuuri could slide back in. “Of course, my love. It’s early still, we don’t have to go to the rink until much later.”

      Yuuri bit his lip. “You won’t let me oversleep?”

      “No, pыбка, I won’t let you oversleep. You’ll be fine.” Viktor’s voice had fallen to a whisper again, like Yuuri was a scared animal.

      Yuuri rolled to face Viktor, and he reached out to run his finger along Viktor’s collarbone, something that had become a bit of a custom for him. Viktor had rested his arm back over Yuuri’s waist; he felt as his breaths lengthened and slowed. Viktor thought Yuuri would go back to sleep, but after a few minutes, he looked up at Viktor through his dark lashes.

      “Viktor?”

      Viktor tightened his hold on Yuuri’s waist and tangled one of his legs with him. “Yes?”

      Yuuri caught his other ankle between Viktor’s and pressed closer. “Tell me about the pair skate idea you had. About you and me, skating together.”

      Viktor smiled and dipped his head to catch Yuuri’s mouth in a chaste kiss. _This, I can do; I can talk about this all day long, if I have to. For him_. “Of course, pыбка,”

 

      Yuuri was skating in Group 2 with Jean-Jacques Leroy and Yuri. Yuuri knew JJ, more or less – he’d trained briefly in Detroit with Celestino before returning to Canada to be coached by his parents. JJ wasn’t a bad kid, but he was loud and self-centered – which didn’t do Yuuri’s anxiety any favors. While Emil Nekola (the young man who Michele had been trying to fight in the elevator) was skating, JJ was doing his best to give Yuuri a loud play-by-play. Yuuri had his earplugs in and had Viktor standing protectively behind him, and he was doing his best to ignore JJ altogether. JJ didn’t like to be ignored, though.

      “Did you hear that? Applause!” he called over his shoulder, clapping himself. “Emil landed a quad loop, too.”

      “Huh? I didn’t… catch that,” Yuuri said softly, pulling the earplugs out. He’d heard most of what JJ said, but it was clear the teenager was going to do his best to make a conversation out of it. JJ strode over, still chattering.

      “Yeah, Viktor did the same jump at last year’s exhibition. I want to see it again!” JJ was standing between Yuuri and Viktor now, looking down on Viktor with the added height of his skates, and Yuuri was surprised to see a deep frown on Viktor’s face.

      “I don’t recall,” Viktor said, each word clearly enunciated through his accent, like he was making sure JJ could understand him.

      “Aww,” JJ whined, but he was grinning broadly. Yuuri was glad when JJ lost interest in trying to get some sort of conversation out of either Viktor or Yuuri and turned to bother Yuri, who was a few meters away.

      Yuri, of course, promptly stomped his foot at JJ and loosed a string of profanity in Russian that had Viktor choking a little (but hiding a devilish smile behind his gloved hand).

      The group of them wandered out from the curtained off skaters’ area to watch the rest of Michele Crispino’s skate. After he got his scores, the ice would be cleared and Group 2 would go on for their six-minute warmup. Viktor wore a serious mask; he’d gone into coaching mode, now that there were cameras watching. Of course, he’d been stony-faced to everyone but Yuuri all day.

      Yuuri went to unzip his track jacket, and Viktor helped him out of it. Yuuri didn’t ask why, but he had the idea that Viktor would either feign some concern for the heavy gems sewn onto the costume or simply tell Yuuri he wanted an excuse to touch him more. And when Yuuri glanced down at his skates, Viktor sank to his knees.

      “Vik –”

      “Just checking that they’re tight. How are your feet? Are you going to need another foot rub tonight?”

      “ _Viktor_.”

      Viktor flipped his bangs back before looking up at Yuuri, still on one knee. The fact that Yuuri was looking down on Viktor on his knees went straight to Yuuri’s dick, and from Viktor’s smirk, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Yuuri only held his gaze for a moment before looking up, over to where Yakov, Lilia, and Yuri stood by the curtains, all frowning. But Viktor stood up and crowded close to Yuuri against the boards.

      “Are you ready? Just a clean and simple warmup, don’t try any quads.”

      Yuuri nodded.

      The warmup went by without issue, and before Yuuri knew it, JJ and Yuri were leaving him on the ice. Yuuri looped around before returning to lean against the boards by Viktor. The focus wasn’t on him, though. In the stands, people were chanting, “Viktor, Viktor, Viktor!”

      Viktor smiled and waved to the crowd, apparently surprised by the reaction he was getting. It was frustrating; any other time, Yuuri would definitely have been one of those people calling Viktor’s name. Now, though…

      Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s tie and used it to pull Viktor to him. Viktor, surprised, was easy to manipulate, and Yuuri pulled him so close that their faces were nearly flush. He didn’t let go of Viktor’s tie, either, and Viktor didn’t ask him to. He stood stock-still, only raising his eyes to meet Yuuri’s.

      “ _Vik_ -tor,” Yuuri breathed, drawing his name out almost like a moan. “The performance has already begun.”

      A small smile was teasing again at the corner of Viktor’s lips. “Oh, you’re right.”

      “Mmm, don’t worry,” Yuuri said, leaning in even closer so his lips brushed Viktor’s cheek when he spoke. “I’m going to show my love to the whole of Russia.”

      When Yuuri released Viktor’s tie, Viktor hung there over the boards like he was a frozen character in a video game. Yuuri skated backwards for long enough to watch Viktor regain control of himself and straighten, his eyes flashing. The announcer was introducing Yuuri to the arena, and Yuuri waved to the crowd. They greeted him warmly, but not as warmly as they would’ve if he were Viktor. What had they thought of that display with Viktor just now? _That was so embarrassing_ , Yuuri thought, feeling his cheeks flush. _But before they can intimidate me in enemy territory, I have to intimidate them_!

      Yuuri wasted no pretense. After the very first steps of _Eros_ , he blew Viktor a kiss. _If I lose here at the Rostelecom Cup, it may be the last chance I have to skate this program with Viktor by my side as coach. Maybe no one in Russia, or even the whole world, wants me to win… and that’s awful. I’m the only one who can change that world_!

      His first jump was clean, and so was the quad sal. Yuuri even thought he could hear Viktor’s voice among the cheers of the crowd. He hoped that was true. Quad toe, triple toe – clean and clear.

      The crowd erupted with applause as Yuuri finished the program. It was perfectly clean again, just as it had been at the Cup of China. Some people were even going so far as to give Yuuri a standing ovation. Yuuri couldn’t see them all clearly without his glasses, but he waved to the crowd all the same, breathless. _I guess I got my message across_.

      Viktor’s voice was wavering; as Yuuri skated closer, he could hear the steady stream of praise Viktor had been calling out to him, and he grinned. If he wasn’t so tired, he would’ve launched himself across the ice for Viktor to catch and hold him like he had in Fukuoka. It was his exhaustion and, of course, the scowling figure standing just beyond the gate. _Yurio_.

      With him standing there in Viktor’s old costume, Yuuri could see in Yuri what he hadn’t the night before at the hotel. It was clear in the way the kid held himself, the way his muscles had started to change, even, that Yuri had been training hard for Final, just as Yuuri was. Seeing him, Yuuri felt a surge of pride – he saw a difference in Yuri, and he knew how dedicated he was.

      “Out of my way, _pig_ ,” Yuri said, his voice flat and eyes flashing with something like trepidation. He sounded nervous, almost – his face showed Yuuri vulnerability he would never have expected Yuri to show him, especially had they never spent time together over the summer.

      Yuuri didn’t fight to keep the smile off his face. _I think he trusts me now – at least, I don’t think he hates me anymore. Wow, he’s grown as a person._ He moved so Yuri could step onto the ice around him before looking over to Viktor, who wore an expression of mingled shock and awe.

      “This… this is Yurio’s real agape, I think,” Yuuri murmured.

      Viktor grabbed Yuuri’s hand to help him off the ice, but didn’t let go. “It’s fantastic!”

      “I’m impressed!” Yuuri said back, meaning it with his whole being, and they grinned at each other and all the way to the Kiss And Cry.

      They settled on the bench to await Yuuri’s scores. On the ice, it looked like Yuri was being last minute advice from Lilia and Yakov, who were stationed just beyond the Kiss And Cry. Yuuri was trying to watch Yuri and the monitor simultaneously, and none of it was going very well – everything was blurry as hell without his glasses.

      And then Viktor was whooping loudly, pulling Yuuri into a one-armed embrace. “You did it, Yuuri!”

      “The score for Katsuki Yuuri’s short program is 109.97!” came the announcement through the rink. Yuuri’s jaw went slack. He’d once again surpassed his personal best and taken the lead in the competition.

      Viktor was beside himself. He was smiling so wide that Yuuri was halfway afraid his face would cramp.  He winked at Yuuri, though, and sank off the bench and onto his knees. Yuuri’s eyes widened, and he bit his upper lip, unable to look away from Viktor as he grasped one of Yuuri’s skates and gave it a lingering kiss. Yuuri knew he was bright pink, but he couldn’t help grinning at the cameras watching. _I showed Russia my love, and now Viktor is showing his_.

      Yuuri noticed that Yuri had turned away from his coach and choreographer and was watching the Kiss And Cry with a look of mingled shock and agitation. _I’ll show my love to_ him _, too_ , Yuuri thought. Viktor didn’t notice; he was still cradling Yuuri’s foot. Yuuri raised both hands over his head so Yuri wouldn’t miss him and shouted, “Yurio, _davai_!”

      “Huh?” Yuri snapped – Yuuri couldn’t hear him over the sound of the crowd, but he’d heard it enough from Yuri over their time spent together that it was a clear enough sound in his mind. Lilia had half-turned to look at Yuuri and Viktor from the corner of her eye; Yakov was pointedly facing the crowd with his nose in the air.

      Viktor’s head popped up, and he laid his eyes on Yuri, too. “ _Gamba_ , Yurio!” he called, waving wildly.

      Yuri shoved away violently from the boards, looping the rink before finding his starting mark in the middle. Yakov shouted after him, but it was too late. The performance started moments later. It was clear Yuri was agitated; he fell hard from his first jump, and Yuuri’s heart sank. _Get up, keep going_ , he willed the younger skater. And Yuri did; he was obviously gritting his teeth from the way his jaw muscle was popping, but he achieved height and rotation on the next combination he went into.

      Viktor and Yuuri were being herded back to give post-skate interviews, but both of them were doing their best to watch Yuri skate from over their shoulders. The crowd seemed to be mostly comprised of shrieking young women at this point, and they were apparently going into hysterics watching Yuri skate.

      There were no more falls or obvious errors, other than the sharp, aggressive movements Yuri made across the ice that didn’t align at all with the theme of his short program. Lilia and Yakov were watching, both with their arms crossed over their chests. By the last quarter of the program, Yuri’s movements were becoming more graceful and less violent. Yuuri wondered if it was exhaustion or the pressure Yuri put on himself to be perfect – or a combination of the two. And after all, this was something of a hometown skate for Yuri. Viktor told Yuuri that Yuri lived most of the year in a dorm at Yubileyny in St. Petersburg, and this season he was living with Lilia, but had grown up in Moscow.

      Yuuri was in the middle of being interviewed when someone shouted that Yuri’s score was posted. The large screen overhead changed to show Lilia, Yuri, and Yakov in the Kiss And Cry, all scowling. He’d scored a 98.09 – Yuuri was still in the lead.

      By the time JJ took the ice, the reporters were done asking Yuuri and Viktor questions (they had Yuri and Yakov to interview), and they were free to wander over to a smaller monitor to watch.  Viktor’s face had flickered into a frown.

      “Who is this guy again?” he asked Yuuri.

      Yuuri stifled a chuckle. “JJ? He’s 19, Canadian. But don’t worry; if you forget, you just have to look at his Canada tattoos or his tramp stamp of his own initials.”

      Viktor wasn’t much better at muffling his laugh. Yuuri was using Viktor’s shoulder to muffle his giggles when in the pocket of his track jacket, his phone rang. He frowned – the only people who ever called him _knew_ he was at a competition. Why would they call him now? The caller ID read Mari’s name. A feeling Yuuri didn’t like settled in his stomach as he answered the call.

      “Um, Yuuri?” Mari’s voice was soft on the other end, and Yuuri pressed the phone so hard against his ear that it hurt. “I’m really sorry to bother you at an event…”

      The horrible feeling in his stomach only intensified when Yuuri realized Mari’s voice was breaking off because she was sniffling. “Mari? What happened?”

      “It’s Makkachin,” she said, and Yuuri’s knees began to shake. _This can’t be happening, not like Vicchan._ “He stole some wrapped buns and one got stuck in his throat. He may have swallowed some plastic, I – I don’t know. We’re at the vet right now… but Yuuri, he’s an older dog and they don’t know if he’ll make it.”

      Over Mari’s trembling voice, the announcer read JJ’s short program score: 113.56. He’d overtaken Yuuri’s lead. But Yuuri didn’t even care, not when Makkachin’s life was apparently in the balance.

      “I’m sorry,” Mari said, and Yuuri was horrified to realize she was crying now. “What do you want us to do?

      Yuuri thought of Vicchan’s shrine at Yu-topia. He wasn’t there when he died; he hadn’t seen him in five years. He lowered the phone and turned to Viktor, who’d been watching with his eyebrows knitted together in concern.

      “Viktor! You need to go back to Japan _right now_ ,” Viktor was visibly taken aback, but Yuuri shook his head before he could ask. “I’ll face the free skate on my own.”

      “What are you talking about? I can’t leave you.”

      “It’s Makkachin,” Yuuri said, his voice breaking. “You _have_ to go back.”

      Viktor’s face fell. His voice was obviously strained as he said, “Like I said, I – I can’t, pыбка.”

      Yuuri was fighting tears, and Viktor put his head in his hand. His jaw was working fiercely, and his hands were shaking. Yuuri was itching to hold him, but he knew there was nothing he could say or do to fix the situation. Viktor raised his head as Yakov walked through the curtains, herding Yuri and Lilia.

      “Yakov!” Viktor gasped. He turned on his heel and speed walked over to meet his old coach. Yuuri saw that he was limping; the damp, cold air of Moscow apparently wasn’t agreeing with Viktor’s old skating injuries, anyway. Yuuri followed, but kept his distance. He’d hung the phone up; Mari would be waiting for his word on what to do.

      “Yakov, thank god!” Viktor said, putting his hands on Yakov’s shoulders and leaning down so they were eye to eye. “You’re the only coach for me.”

      “What?” Yakov said, glancing around him to look at Yuuri before looking back at Viktor. “You want to come _back_?”

      “Can you be Yuuri’s coach tomorrow? Just for one day?”

      “Huh?”

      Yuuri was just as surprised as Yakov and, from the fleeting eye contact he made with Yuri, him as well.

      Viktor’s shoulders were shaking. “It’s Makkachin.”

 

      Yuuri went with Viktor to the hotel to help him pack. Even though they’d only been there a night, Viktor had a penchant for scattering his things. Viktor kept apologizing, his chin trembling.

      “I’m sorry, Yuuri, this is a crisis…”

      Yuuri wanted to tell Viktor that it was alright, but it wasn’t. This was what had to be done, though. They faced each other in the lobby of the hotel. Viktor’s taxi would arrive in minutes.

      “Ask Yakov if there’s anything you don’t understand, and if you’re in trouble, just hug him. He’ll help you. And remember that I told you there would be, ah, additional help? Protection? Misha – the man who’s been following us the last two days, I don’t know if you’ve noticed – he’s coming with me to the airport. But you’re safe; you _will_ be safe, pыбка, Yakov has sixes all over watching out for us.”

      Yuuri didn’t say anything, and Viktor pulled him into a hug. Panic was starting to build in his stomach like ice water; Viktor was really going back to Japan. Yuuri was on his own for the free skate. And there had been a _man_ following them? How had he _missed_ that?

      “I love you and I’m so sorry, Yuuri,” Viktor said again. “Even if I’m not here, though, I’m always with you in spirit.”

      They both jumped when Viktor’s phone chimed. His car had arrived. Before he left, though, he cradled Yuuri’s face in his trembling hands and pressed their foreheads together. Yuuri held onto Viktor’s wrists and leaned into him. For a moment, Yuuri thought his heart was slowing down, just being touched by Viktor. But Viktor’s phone chimed again, and he pulled away. He met Yuuri’s eyes one last time before going through the revolving door with his bags.

      And then Viktor left for Japan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MakkaCHOKE :0  
> First, I don't know if I've defined it before, but a 'bratok' is the lowest ranking confirmed member of a bratva (compare to a 'soldier' in an American or Sicilian Mafia). A shestyorka, or six, is technically ranked lower but seen as a temporary member, an informant, or a grunt - not a full member of the mafia.
> 
> This chapter feels short and kind of filler-ish but honestly I like it a lot anyway; we open and close in similar scenes with desperately different feelings to them. It's also really fun to explore ranges of emotions for characters (Viktor canonically getting irritated is something so fun and oft overlooked, I love building off those emotions). That being said, I hope you guys are ready for the rollercoaster the next chapter will kick off... (as well as some bonding between Yuri and Yuuri).
> 
> Thank you so so much for continuing to read this story!! The ballpark for length is 20 chapters, so you've made it halfway, wow! Right as I post this, there's about 2.6k hits on this fic, which is twice more than my previous chaptered fic - and that blows my mind!! The idea that people are reading my writing and (hopefully) enjoying it? There's nothing like it.  
> It means a lot when people leave comments and kudos; I always wanna hear what y'all think.
> 
> Remember, you can find references for Viktor and Yuuri's tattoos (as well as some other things I've put together for this fic) [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats), and you can contact me anytime on tumblr (the link is in the series notes).


	13. Parking Lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Am I alone in here? I really think I'm losing sight...  
>  Separation is our only friend, don't get attached, soon enough we're dead _
> 
> Yuuri is alone in Moscow to face the free skate of the Rostelecom Cup. He has a lot to think about without Viktor there to fill those silences - namely, thoughts regarding sustainability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨I hope you guys are ready for some angst✨  
>  
> 
> Title and summary are a direct reference to [the song by HUNNY](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2qgSOMGR7w)

      Viktor would be flying all day to Japan; he wouldn’t be reachable by anyone for twenty-four hours, give or take _. It may be a good thing_ , Yuuri thought, _because he won’t be bombarded by people asking what the fuck happened with my skate when it falls to hell._

      The bed in the hotel room felt too big without Viktor there. Even when they hadn’t been in the same bed, they’d at least been sleeping in the same room for months. It was ridiculous that it made Yuuri feel lout of place; he told himself this, told himself that he was almost twenty-four and should be able to sleep in a goddamn room by himself, but it didn’t quell his nerves. Around four a.m., after staring at the popcorn style ceiling for the last several hours, he found the TV remote. Naturally, all the channel titles were written in Cyrillic, and Yuuri really only had the basics down from his duolingo app. Finally he was able to locate a children’s channel – even in Russian, cartoons were cartoons: mindless and thought-numbing. It was nearly five when Yuuri was finally able to fall asleep.

      He was awakened an hour and a half later by someone pounding on his door. Yuuri grabbed his phone from under his pillow and saw that he had missed texts, but didn’t put his glasses on to read the contact names. Instead, he dragged himself out of bed and crossed the hotel room to answer the door.

      Yuri Plisetsky scowled up at him, tapping a booted foot impatiently. “Come on, we’re going to the rink.”

      “What?”

      Yuri shouldered his way around Yuuri into the hotel room. “We’re going to the rink, fatass. Yakov, Lilia, Georgi, and Mila are waiting downstairs.”

      Yuuri raised his eyebrows at the kid, who had flopped onto the bed. After a moment, he closed the hotel door and walked back across the room to retrieve his tracksuit from where he’d left it the night before. Yuri gave no indication that he was leaving without Yuuri.

      When Yuuri returned from dressing, washing his face, and brushing his teeth, Yuri was sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes glued to the screen. When he noticed Yuuri watching him, though, he bristled.

      “What are you looking at, pig? And why are you watching _Маша и Медведь_ , anyway?”

      “Couldn’t sleep,” Yuuri muttered, stuffing his pajamas back into his duffle bag. He looked up, though, when Yuri didn’t look away from him. “What did you call it?”

      Yuri scowled. “Маша и Медведь. It means, um, Masha and the Bear?”

      “Oh.” That made sense to Yuuri – the cartoon was mainly of a young girl and a bear. Conversationally, he asked, “Are you familiar with it?”

      Yuri swore and threw a pillow at Yuuri’s head, hitting him soundly in the chest. “I’m _fifteen_ , you asshole!”

      Yuuri put his hands up defensively. “I know, Yurio, it was just a question. I’m ready, though – shall we go, then?”

      Yuri was still acting prickly, but he climbed out of bed and led the way to the door. Yuuri mentally checked that he had all his things in the bag that went with him to the rink, and he thought he was okay. _And Viktor said to ask Yakov if I need anything… which I don’t plan on doing if I can help it, but I have that option, at least_.

 

      Morooka was in Moscow to cover the Rostelecom Cup, and he cornered Yuuri after the morning practice.

      “Katsuki-san, it didn’t look like you exchanged many words with Coach Yakov at the public practice this morning.”

      Yuuri glanced down at the microphone Morooka was holding out for him and up into Morooka’s concerned face. He thought of his family and the ninkyō dantai who would be watching this at home. He forced himself to smile. “I’m fine!”

      When Morooka’s eyebrows stayed dangerously high, Yuuri added, “I’ll just do what I’ve always done in practice with Viktor!”

      There wasn’t anywhere for Yuuri to catch a break. Yakov’s skaters stayed at the rink from morning practice until the final skate; without Viktor, Yuuri didn’t have an escape. He didn’t even know where to stand – he ended up hovering around Lilia, Yakov’s ex-wife and Yuri’s choreographer. The woman wore a frown to rival any he’d seen on Yakov’s face. _If Viktor is bratva and he’s been coached and choreographed by these people his whole career, who got him into the crime syndicate?_

      And people came up to him all day, even after the competition started for the day, wanting to know where Viktor was. At first, Yuuri felt compelled to tell them everything, but by the time JJ came along (standing too close, talking too loud), Yuuri simply said that something had come up, and he was on his own for the free skate.

      To make matters worse, after Emil Nekola – who wasn’t a man at all, but closer in age to Yuri than Yuuri, despite how he looked with that goatee – took the ice as the first of the day, having landed in sixth place with his short program, Sara Crispino decided to confront her brother. Michele was in the staging area, preparing to skate next. Yuuri wasn’t the only one who stopped warming up to watch.

      “I’m taking this opportunity to clarify something, Mickey.” She said, raising her chin to look her twin in the eye. “I’ll make it to the Grand Prix Final with or without your help.”

      For a moment, Yuuri was confused – but he recalled that Sara still skated singles, just as Michele did, and she was vying for a place in the women’s singles Grand Prix Final, too.

      “You need to find a way to win without my support, too, Mickey,” Sara said, laying a hand on Michele’s arm. Michele’s face was crumpling, but Sara showed no sign of stopping. On the contrary, she was gaining speed. In that moment, Yuuri couldn’t remember seeing or ever even hearing of Sara standing up to her overbearing brother.

      “I’m not every woman in the world. You need to get _out_ more!”

      Michele lunged toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist, dipping down so he could press his cheek against her chest. “I don’t need any woman but you, Sara!” his voice was pitifully tearful. “I was able to focus on skating and come this far because _you_ were with me. Don’t leave me alone, _please_!”

      Sara looked for a moment like she might give in to her brother’s emotional display. Then she seized his face between her forefinger and thumb and pulled him off of her. “Pull yourself together, Michele Crispino, and get stronger! I can skate without your love, _and_ I’ll start dating!”

      Michele let out an ugly wail and dropped to his knees. Sara took a step away from him, shaking her head. Their shared coach hurried over, looking harried, and said something to Michele in Italian. Yuuri only knew so much from years of being coached by Celestino (and working with the Detroit Partnership), but it wasn’t hard to put two and two together – Emil’s skate was done, and Michele was up. Yuuri’s momentary distraction from his anxiety was over.

      Yuuri was watching Michele walk through the curtains, so he didn’t see Sara until she was putting her hand on his shoulder in leaning in like she had a secret to tell.

      “I really liked your short program, Yuuri,” she said, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. “It was _super_ hot.”

      “Um, thanks,” Yuuri managed, feeling the back of his neck prickle with discomfort. Sure, Sara was attractive, but he’d never really done well with being so overtly flirted with.

      Sara was still smiling, but she was looking at someone over Yuuri’s shoulder. He glanced over and was surprised to see the redheaded skater who Yuri had called Mila waving at… Sara? Sara caught Yuuri’s eye again and patted his shoulder.

      “Well, I’m off to watch Mickey skate with Mila. See you later, Yuuri, and good luck out there!”

      He watched Sara link arms with Mila and walk in the direction of the stands. _What just happened here? Huh, I bet Sara wouldn’t have even_ looked _at me if Viktor had been here… I wish he_ was _here, though._

 

      Yuuri stayed in the staging area for most of the day, even after Yuri had disappeared with his coach and choreographer. Though he felt rather alone, Yuuri didn’t really mind the isolation. He focused on his stretches and his familiar off-ice warmup, just like he would even if Viktor was there. It wasn’t until he looked up and saw Seung-gil walking past with a stiff back and tears on his cheeks that he realized that it was probably time for his group to take the ice for the six-minute warmup. Whether he was ready emotionally or not, the competition was progressing.

      Yuri skated before Yuuri and JJ, having ended the day before in third place. Yuuri almost didn’t recognize the Russian Punk: his hair was braided back into a ponytail and he wore an elaborate black and pinkish red jumpsuit. Someone – Lilia, probably – had done Yuri’s makeup, and Yuuri was reminded of the femininity Viktor used to flaunt in his junior programs. It was a look that complimented Yuri’s delicate features, Yuuri thought. As he watched, Yuri skated a loop around the ice, face impassive though the crowd was chanting his name like they’d chanted Viktor’s.

      Yakov and Lilia watched their skater with faces as blank as Yuri’s, even though he’d gone and landed clean quads right off the bat. Yuuri’s stomach was twisting, even when he went back behind the curtains to finish warming up. How was he to follow this? _That was a hellish step sequence, and they didn’t even give him room for a breath._

      Yuuri was warming up and doing his best to ignore the cheers from the other side of the curtains, but his eyes kept drawing to the monitors showing Yuri skating. Something in his face changed in the second half of his program – he scowled and appeared to swear, and suddenly he was skating with vigor that he’d been starting to lose. _How is this the kid who fell asleep on the beach with me and Viktor? Is this really Yurio?_ He’d skated the program clean, with an unheard of six jumps in the second half. When Yuuri cautiously went through the curtains to stand rinkside, he could see Lilia crying, her shoulders shaking.

      There was only a step sequence left, now that Yuri had landed all his jumps. The fatigue in his movements was becoming obvious once again. When the music ended, Yuri stood triumphantly on the ice, hands raised as the crowd cheered for him – but only for a moment. He crashed to his knees, panting hard. _A program beyond his limits,_ Yuuri thought, watching Yuri’s shoulders shake as he went onto all fours on the ice, _that has to be what that was_.

      He watched as Yuri came off the ice and walked to the Kiss And Cry on shaking legs with Lilia beside him, chin held high and proud. _Where’s Yakov, won’t he want to join them?_ Yuuri hadn’t even stripped out of his track jacket, transfixed watching the Kiss And Cry as if he were waiting for his own score, not a competitor’s. Yuuri saw Lilia’s face change first – it softened minutely, and for a moment she was as beautiful as she was severe – and then a smile cracked Yuri’s face.

      The announcer came over the loud speaker, saying, “A personal best for Yuri Plisetsky, 199.87. His combined total is 297.96, putting him in first place, and securing a place for him in the Grand Prix Final.”

      Now it was Yuuri’s knees that were shaking. Yuri looked over at him, still flushed with exertion and grinning. “How’d you like my skate, katsudon?”

      Yakov stormed between the Yuris. He made a grab for Yuuri’s jacket, growling, “Katsuki, why aren’t you on the ice?! I wasn’t asked to babysit you, was I? You’re about to miss your skate time.”

      Yuuri’s stomach was leaden again. He handed his jacket to Yakov and skated through the gate and onto the ice, the chill seeming more pronounced now without Viktor anywhere in sight. Viktor wouldn’t even be watching him, not unless he’d found the time and means to livestream the competition on his flight back to Japan.

      When Yuuri took his starting position, the ice seemed to swim beneath his skates. _I have to be calm, I’m skating to my love_ , he told himself. Part of him argued, _what’s the point? Your love isn’t watching, and you’ll let him down in the end._

      The music began to play. There was no time to cry. _I don’t want them all to think that all of what Viktor’s taught me and all of the time spent has been a waste. And I can only prove that by winning. If I fail here, everything is over_. The first jump was a quad toe loop combination, and he popped the second jump, making it into a single. His stomach swooped. _God fucking damnit. I have to calm down,_ calm down _. How do I recover from that?_

      All Yuuri could think of was Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. It was the heartbeat pounding in his ears, the agitation making his fingertips shake as he stretched his arms out through step sequences. Viktor, who had come into his life so brashly with his mafia tattoos and deadly smirk. Viktor, who could read Yuuri like an open book. _How did he know how I felt, even in the beginning?_ Yuuri wondered, remembering hitting the ice the day he had the koi’s scales turned black and Viktor telling him it must be because he had something on his mind. _Before Viktor, I could never say openly that I intended to win gold – but I never skated so certain I was going to lose, anyway_.

      Yuuri’s next quad had enough rotations, even though he stepped out of the landing and bruised his hip on the ice. _Truthfully, I’d wanted to win gold at last year’s Grand Prix, too_. Going into the spin, he thought of the way Viktor had been encouraging him all through the summer and fall, even before his murmurs of reassurance were done with his lips against Yuuri’s neck. _I was able to come this far because Viktor believed in me_. Triple loop; he two-footed the landing. _If I end here without making the Grand Prix Final… no. I can’t think of that right now_. _Yurio looked like he’d drop dead on his last three-jump combo. What an idiot… but I have more stamina than him!_

      Yuuri got a lot of air, landing in a neat and clean triple axel. He thought of the way Viktor looked at him, with his bright eyes and expressive mouth, the way he talked with his hands and laughed like he didn’t know it made the world around him stop to watch, to listen. _Whether Viktor were here with me or not, it would still feel as tough_. Triple flip. _Keep it simple; I’m the only one who can skate this program with this kind of appeal._ Here was the lunge, the spread eagle, and the Ina Bauer. Triple axel, single loop, triple salchow; set up and then triple lutz, triple toe loop. _I’m the only one who knows the love Viktor and I created this program with; I love it more than anyone else does!_ Yuuri thought of the way Viktor’s eyes softened when he smiled. _I’m not finished yet! I’ll be done when I get the gold with Viktor_.

      The step sequence was going smoothly until he came out of the last jump, the quad toe loop, and touched down. A huge groan came from the crowd. There was no time to dwell; there was a combination spin to the end pose, and he was done. When he stretched his arm out at the end, there was no one waiting at his fingertips. Yuuri sank down to the ice like Yuri had, resting his forehead there, arm still outstretched. _That was the toughest program I’ve done so far… even though I skated for years without Viktor beside me, I somehow forgot how hard it is without him. I don’t want to skate without Viktor._

      Yakov didn’t say anything when Yuuri came through the gate. He handed him his skateguards and, once they were in place, pressed a water bottle and canned drink into Yuuri’s hands. On the way to the Kiss And Cry, he grunted, “Drink. Yura said you didn’t sleep; that is energy drink for you. And I have a straw; Vitya… Vitya never liked to smudge his makeup.”

      Yuuri mumbled his thanks and sat down heavily on the bench at the Kiss And Cry. He took the straw from Yakov and sipped on the drink, which was oversweet and simultaneously bitter, and waited. He’d seen Yakov chew Viktor out after performances for years, even record-breaking ones. Hell, even Viktor got snippy after many of Yuuri’s skates.

      “Oi,” Yakov grunted, and finally turned to look at Yuuri properly. Trying not to be too nervous, Yuuri lowered the drink. Yakov continued, “You totally failed to take advantage of that program Vitya made for you! Why hadn’t you practiced for the possibility that you might flub a jump? Well, Vitya never did, either, and he hasn’t learned better even as a coach.”

_He’s_ just _like Viktor_ , Yuuri thought, _a lecture at the Kiss And Cry_. Yakov seemed content with that, though, and he sat back, though his body language was more open to Yuuri. It was almost enough for Yuuri to catch his breath – Yakov hadn’t said anything that sent Yuuri panicking more than he already had been, and it was true that he should’ve been practicing for the event of a flubbed jump. But that skate was over, and all they could do now was wait for scores to come back.

      “Katsuki Yuuri has scored a 172.87 in his free skate. His total score is 282.84, and he is currently in third place. He may still advance to the Grand Prix Final, but we won’t know until the end.”

      Yakov was looking straight ahead. “That’s a higher score than I was expecting.” When Yuuri didn’t say anything, Yakov turned to him with an expression that was almost a smile. “What’s wrong?”

      Yuuri could’ve pretended that it was just that he felt disoriented without his glasses; he could’ve said he simply missed Viktor. Instead, he decided to reach out with the emotion he’d been bottling so tightly since Viktor left. Catching Yakov unawares, Yuuri wrapped his arms around him and murmured, “ _Spasibo_ , Yakov.”

      Yakov was stiff as a board, but finally patted Yuuri’s back, and Yuuri found himself – embarrassingly – fighting tears. _Viktor will go back to Russia soon, and leave me in Japan_. He pulled away before he could cry on Yakov’s shoulder and stood. JJ was on the ice now; his skate would determine how soon Viktor would be leaving Yuuri.

      JJ had given Yuuri a sneer before he started his program, and Yuuri knew what he was thinking – ‘how is this the man that Viktor left figure skating for? With a free skate like that, what’s so special about him?’ (and then, because this was JJ, he probably made some allusions between himself as a king and Yuuri as some kind of poor peasant).

      Yuuri could hear Morooka’s commentary: if JJ landed all the components of his skate, his program would have the highest difficulty of all the skaters. _And every component he lands, the further he’ll push me from Viktor, I know it,_ Yuuri thought. The despair building in him was so great he thought that he wouldn’t even be able to cry when they told him he’d failed at this chance for the Grand Prix Final.

      And naturally, JJ landed all his jumps without issue. Yuuri let a single tear fall to his cheek before pushing his emotions down. _This is no time to embarrass myself further. Not when I have the reputations of so many to hold up from the mud I’m sinking in._

      Yuuri was being interviewed (when he would have much preferred to be under a blanket somewhere, melting into oblivion) close enough to the judges to hear some of their deliberations.

      “Leroy will take first in the free skate as he did in the short program, with Plisetsky second, and Crispino third. Katsuki Yuuri will be fourth. But when you total _both_ competition scores, Crispino and Katsuki have the same overall score.”

      Yuuri’s stomach was doing acrobatics. _So we have the same score, but I can make it into the Final because I placed second in the Cup of China_. _I should’ve done better than this; I shouldn’t be in this situation._ His cheeks burned with shame. _The six that will advance to the Grand Prix Final are the three that were already basically confirmed – Chris, Otabek Altin, and Phichit – JJ, who cemented his high score today, Yurio, who placed second, and me. I made it to the Final, but I’ve still let Viktor down._

      Back in the staging area, Yuuri watched Sara and Michele walking toward the doors to leave. For someone who had been knocked out of the running for the Final, he didn’t look too upset.

      “Man, I’m tired,” he sighed.

      Sara wasn’t looking at him. “You don’t have to come and support me at the women’s free skate tomorrow, then, Mickey.”

      “Can’t I at least cheer you on?”

      “You’d just run straight to the Kiss And Cry again.” Sara rolled her eyes. But then, in her effort to ignore her brother, she caught sight of Yuuri, and ran to his side. “Oh, Yuuri, congratulations on making it to the Grand Prix Final! I knew you’d make it.”

      When Sara opened her arms for a hug, Michele snapped, “Sara!”

      At first, Yuuri was unsure. But he knew Sara, had known her for years, and this felt genuine, unlike her earlier over-the-top flirting. “Thank you,” he said, pulling her in. Sara was soft and small, and hugging her was much different than hugging Viktor, but it was still nice.

      Michele wailed. “No! _Sara_! What are you _doing_?”

      Yuuri released Sara and walked the few steps over to Michele to hug him, too. Michele acted like he’d been burned and scrambled to put space between himself and Yuuri. When Emil came to investigate, Yuuri grabbed him for a hug, too.

      “What is this, a hugging competition?” Emil chuckled, but he seemed unperturbed. He was warm and smelled of pine, and he actually hugged Yuuri back like he meant it.

      Yuuri gave Emil a tight smile when he pulled away. He didn’t know what he was doing, but it felt right – he needed to express how undeserving of the qualification he felt, and how grateful he was to everyone involved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Seung-gil skulking by. He didn’t particularly like Seung-gil, but he’d seen him in tears earlier after he lost his chance at the Final. That was deserving of a brief, silent hug.

      When JJ came boasting through the hall, talking about his new medal with his parent/coaches flanking him, Yuuri grabbed him for a hug, too. It shut JJ up for a good minute afterwards. By this time, Yuri saw what was coming, and he took off at a run when Yuuri turned in his direction, shouting obscenities. Yuuri caught him though, and after a moment, Yuri hugged him back, squishing his cheek against Yuuri’s collarbone before checking over his shoulder to make sure no one saw.

      “I’m really proud of you, Yurio,” Yuuri said. He almost didn’t want to let the kid go.

      Yuri squirmed out of his grasp, though. “Yeah, well… you hung in there today.”

      With the competition over, it wasn’t long before the coaches and officials were sweeping through the halls, herding their skaters out into the chilly Moscow night. Yakov grabbed Mila and stuffed her into a taxi with Lilia, grumbling about Mila needing her rest for the women’s skate tomorrow. Outside and away from the other skaters, Yuuri noticed the two bear-like men who hovered at the edge of Yakov’s group, and who had been around all day. _The security detail Viktor said Yakov would have to watch over him and Yurio…_

      Yuuri wandered away from the others to lean against a railing and watch the snow. He felt the eyes of the guards on him, but they didn’t follow him. He was grateful for that, at least. _I’m this close to the peak of my figure skating career,_ Yuuri thought, looking up at the night sky. _I really want the gold now! And the Grand Prix Final will be my last chance. Even if I don’t win gold at the Final, I’ll have Viktor step down as my coach, and_ –

      He was knocked off his feet by a swift kick. Landing in the slushy snow knocked the wind out of him, and Yuuri looked up to see Yuri frowning over him.

      “God, _there_ you are, Katsudon,” he said. “You made me look for you.”

      Yuuri sat up. “Hi, Yurio.” Naturally, Yuri was wearing a familiar pair of scuffed leather boots with a buckle that read _Chanel_. “Did you take those boots from Viktor just to kick me with?”

      “He hasn’t worn them in years, so bringing them to Hasetsu was just tempting faith. But what was that earlier, with the hugging?” Yuri asked, a furrow in his brow. “You creeped me out a little. And that free skate, what the fuck was up with _that_? I guess you can say ‘oh I couldn’t skate my best without Viktor’, but come _on_. And like, I was in top form _and_ I earned a new personal best, only to lose to fucking _JJ_ again!”

      Yuuri had to fight back a laugh. Yuri looked so incredulous, so scandalized. It reminded Yuuri that he was only fifteen, skating against adults and keeping up with them ridiculously well.

      Yuri squared his shoulders. “So anyway, you have no reason to feel more down than me, Katsudon!” And he hesitated in a miniscule way, but then threw a brown paper bag into Yuuri’s lap. “You can have this. It’s almost your birthday, right?”

      “Hmm?” Yuuri raised his eyebrows. How did Yuri know his birthday? Cautiously, he opened the paper bag to reveal several fried dough buns. “Pirozhki?”

      Yuri was pointedly looking away from him. “Eat.”

      “What? Right here?” Yuuri was still sitting on the ground.

      “Eat!” Yuri repeated, raising his voice.

      Deciding not to ask how these did with a skater’s diet, Yuuri got to his feet and extracted a pirozhki bun from the bag. With Yuri watching closely, he took a bite.

      “Uh, there’s rice in this…” he said around his mouthful, “Pork cutlet and egg, too… _oh_ , it’s katsudon!”

      When he looked over, Yuri was smiling triumphantly. “That’s right!” he said, his smile only widening. It made him look like a whole new person, soft and young and relaxed. “My grandfather made them himself! Aren’t they great?”

      “Yeah!” Yuuri nodded, smiling, too. He’d never seen Yuri like this. “They’re _vkusno_!”

 

⋆

 

      When Yuuri was just fourteen, his idol, Viktor, suddenly disappeared from the skating world. The reasons were completely unknown at first, and when details eventually began to emerge, they were vague at best. Rumors ran rampant – all skating gossip magazines could talk about was the golden child of skating’s disappearance. Was this all a publicity stunt? Was Viktor even a real person? Was he alive? Had he been abducted by aliens? No. After the longest week Yuuri had ever lived, it was revealed that Viktor had an injury during training that would keep him off the ice for the year.

      When the new skating season began, though, Viktor did not return. His coach, Yakov Feltsman, was tight-lipped the way only someone who had lived their entire life in the Soviet Union could be. There were no tabloid sightings of Viktor, no reassurances for his loyal fanbase. He was just... _gone_.

      At the time, Yuuri thought that the best thing he could do was throw in the towel. What good in skating was there when Viktor was gone? Viktor was everything to Yuuri – he was the reason why Yuuri pushed himself so hard on the ice; he was the reason why Yuuri wanted to grow up to skate on the same ice as him. Hell, Yuuri’s dog was even named after Viktor! And the idea of all the time spent on the ice learning Viktor’s routines with Yuuko, the nights of dreaming about meeting Viktor on the podium at some event, gone to waste hurt like a bad sunburn. It was everywhere, and it wouldn’t go away.

      But if Yuuri disappeared from skating just like Viktor had, there something for him to turn to, a thing that could consume him as fully as skating had.

      After spending hours building himself up, feverishly thinking over the pros and cons of taking such an action, Yuuri found Yamamoto Shinobu, the shateigashira of the local yakuza, and asked him if he would please allow Yuuri to become a shatei within the organization. And Yamamoto laughed. He laughed and then made the excuse that Yuuri was too young, and as a thirteen year old, had too much ahead of him. Yuuri – who was nearly fifteen and quite well informed – bristled. But Yamamoto wasn’t afraid of a child’s wrath; instead, he pointedly turned his attention to the TV, which was playing a recorded Sagan Tosu game.

      Yuuri wasn’t done, though. He went to Minako’s studio from Yu-topia. Minako really wasn’t surprised to see Yuuri, of course – he spent every other waking hour in her studio, dancing and dancing and dancing like it was some vital part of him, something as important as breath or food. This was why all she could do was frown when Yuuri (who was clearly distressed, all pale and shaky and so obviously sad) came in and didn’t go immediately to the barre but instead sat on the studio floor and stared at his feet. Minako was even more taken aback when Yuuri announced in possibly the smallest voice ever that he wanted to quit dancing ballet.

      Minako, who had spent her life dancing much like Yuuri had, had the first instinct to laugh. This wasn’t a serious declaration, was it? How could it be? Yuuri was crying softly – not sobbing, but weeping, tears flowing down his cheeks in an inconsolable way.

      After much cajoling (but not as much as she expected), Minako was able to coax the story from Yuuri. Viktor was gone, he said, and that in and of itself was almost all she needed to hear. But there was more – Minako wasn’t really associated with the ninkyō dantai, but she’d lived around the world in places like Russia and New York, and damned if she wouldn’t be able to tell when there was a crime syndicate running the small town where she’d grown up. She knew the ninkyō dantai was closely associated with the Katsuki onsen, and that that had some correlation to the way a huge number of onsens had gone out of business. But Minako wasn’t one to meddle or get involved; she had her snack bar and a ballet studio to worry about, after all. Of course, she hadn’t been expecting sweet young Yuuri to tell her he wanted to throw away all he’d worked so hard for in terms of figure skating and athleticism in order to join said crime syndicate. At least Yamamoto had had the sense to forbid Yuuri from doing so, but still, the whole situation made Minako’s skin crawl.

      She understood why Yuuri was so crushed, though. He was incredibly prideful took a huge amount of pressure to himself, even at a young age, to do well at whatever he attempted. So to put that pride – and truly, his livelihood – on the line and be laughed at? No wonder Yuuri was upset.

      He wanted to be stronger; he wanted not to be seen as a child.

      A week later, then, it was Minako who stopped Yuuri at the door of her studio and told him that today, instead of dancing Yuuri was going to do something else. It wasn’t just Yu-topia that enjoyed the patronage of yakuza members in Hasetsu – the Kachu Snack Bar was popular, too, because it was no secret that Minako had good taste in alcohol. It was with some particularly potent liquors and low-cut blouses that she’d been able to flirt her way into asking questions of these yakuza shatei without raising alarm. Minako was after some other activity for Yuuri to take up, something that wouldn’t pull him fully from skating (even though he still tearfully insisted that he wanted to quit, whenever asked) but would help him feel more like whatever image of a yakuza shatei he was currently feeling the need to fulfill. To Minako’s surprise, it wasn’t a shatei who proved to be most helpful, but Mari.

      Mari was twenty then, a little shy of twenty-one. She was, like her father, laid back and hard to rattle – but like Hiroko, Mari had a good mind for business. As a rule, women weren’t a part of the syndicates of organized crime, save for the wives of more important members. Mari wasn’t about to marry one of Yamamoto’s men. She did, however, have a knack for communicating with various members of the ninkyō dantai, and because of this came to more or less represent the interests of Yu-topia in regards to the other groups controlled by Fukuyama.

      There were plenty of young men, however, that Mari interacted with and found less than respectful – namely because, as a woman, they expected Mari to yield to whatever they asked of her. After witnessing a scuffle between Mari and a rather brazen youth from Tokyo that involved a fork stabbed to the back of a hand, one of the kyodai in the local yakuza decided to bring Mari under his wing. Masihide Ishii was about Katsuki Toshiya’s age, but as a member of a crime organization from a young age, he seemed older. Masihide had decided, to the agreement of Toshiya and Hiroko, as well as Yamamoto and Fukuyama, that Mari needed to be taught how to properly defend herself. Mari attended a local college and worked exclusively at her family’s onsen; it wasn’t hard to make time for Masihide’s lessons. They began a regimen of combined martial arts, based around a combination of aikido to center her mind and learn how to redirect motion and jujutsu to defend herself and return attacks. Mari showed a surprising aptitude to training in martial arts. She wasn’t a violent person by nature, but she seemed to revel in the discipline associated with bettering her mind and body. Mashihide had always doted on Mari, affectionately nicknaming her ‘granddaughter’ and bringing her cigarettes, decorative blades, and foreign sweets for years. He was so pleased by her abilities that he began to stray from teaching her specific martial arts and started to incorporate proper street fighting.

      It wasn’t long after Minako spent that week in search of a new outlet for Yuuri that Mari began to be known within the local yakuza not only for her sharp wit but also for her solid right hook. When Yuuri began receiving the tutelage of Masihide as well, though, he wasn’t taught the same street fighting as Mari. It was known among the kyodai that Yamamoto had plans for Yuuri. Instead, Masihide encouraged Yuuri to build his strength more than what was typical of aikido, and to focus on the aspect of _ki_ to find peace and center his thoughts when they began to take control of him.

      To Minako’s relief, Yuuri soon stopped saying he wanted to quit figure skating and join the yakuza fully. He returned to Ice Castle Hasetsu to resume his scheduled blocks of time alone on the ice. Every week he still put in hours training in the Hasetsu Gym with Mari or Masihide, and he didn’t say anything else about feeling like a burden, or like he didn’t belong. He started to smile again when he came to the studio to dance, and he smiled when he skated, too. In fact, the

 

      When Minako worked up the nerve to ask Yuuri about Viktor Nikiforov after about a year of this new routine, Yuuri got a faraway look in his big, brown eyes. There had been whispers, of course, about Viktor over the last year – some said that he cut his hair, some said he had gotten married and had a child, some said he was dead, some said that Viktor was planning his return to the ice as they spoke. Yuuri had no doubt heard all those and more. But Yuuri raised his gaze to Minako’s and blinked, the faraway look becoming something poignant but certain. He said that Viktor was still his idol, and always would be – because he had a feeling that he would return to the ice, and when he did, Yuuri wanted to be the one to meet him there. Minako smiled at Yuuri, but she secretly thought Yuuri was only setting himself up for heartbreak – because really, would Viktor _ever_ return? He was twenty now – perhaps he’d moved on. _But can someone wrapped so intensely in a sport – an_ art – _like that ever move on?_

      About two years later, Yuuri was presented with the opportunity to go to college in America, and to train there under a nationally recognized figure skating coach. At this point, Yuuri himself was recognized widely as a figure skater by his performances in the junior division, and his face was known through Japan by those who followed the sport. This was all according to the plan Yamamoto had had since Toshiya first introduced his son as a future star athlete – because precociousness aside, Yuuri had always been the one to watch; he drew people to him without realizing it, and those people brought money with them more often than not. And after all these years, Yuuri felt an overwhelming need to serve the ninkyō dantai that his family was so much a part of.

      When Yamamoto ended up coordinating with Yuuri’s new coach in Detroit, Michigan, America, and finding out that Celestino represented the interests of the Licavoli Family (an American Mafia subgroup), Yuuri was asked to assume his martial arts training with a new vigor, now centered much more around the jujutsu rather than aikido. Celestino vowed to watch over Yuuri for the sake of peace between this small yakuza and small mafia, but Yamamoto and Fukuyama both impressed upon Yuuri that he needed to be able to defend himself without needing the assistance of others.

      Yuuri didn’t mind. He was living in a daze – not long after he was accepted into the American college, an announcement from Russia had come: Viktor Nikiforov would be returning to the ice after nearly five years away. Yuuri had seen pictures of Viktor over the years (looking emotionless and ethereal in the crowd at some political event in Russia; walking down the street with a group of people with blank faces surrounding him; in stills from various adverts that had never been aired) but they were nothing compared to the headshot that had appeared across all the top skating magazines. Viktor’s trademark, long platinum hair was gone and the five years showed in the faint lines around his eyes, but he still looked proud, smirking like he was figure skating’s Rudolf Nureyev. And Yuuri was going to do everything in his power to get to his hero’s side, even if it took him years of blood, sweat, and unsavory company.

      Yuuri was twenty when another new role for him to take on was created. In addition to foreign student and rising international mens singles figure skater, Yuuri would be working for two different crime syndicates as a part of joint money laundering scheme working off of clueless tourists and the seedy casinos and clubs littering Detroit. Yuuri hadn’t forgotten his foundations; he saw the koi tattooed on his chest every time he looked into the mirror or down at his body. He thought of the small, dingy Hasetsu Gym every time he was in the brightly lit campus gym taking the kickboxing class Masihide had recommended he pick up (which, added to the poledancing class Phichit had drunkenly signed them up for and the hours upon hours spent skating, had Yuuri in the best shape of his life with a kind of superhuman stamina). He also didn’t forget the routines he’d watched over and over on the small TV in the lounge of Ice Castle Hasetsu where Viktor had skated with waist-length platinum hair; he didn’t forget the fire in his gut that Viktor kept stoked. Yuuri wouldn’t let Viktor disappear from the ice again, not when they had yet to skate on the same ice.

      No, Viktor didn’t know Yuuri’s name _yet_ , but he would. Yuuri had proved himself to the ninkyō dantai as someone strong and capable, in spite of his crippling anxiety and overwhelming self-doubts. One day, Yuuri was going to show Viktor that, too.

 

⋆

 

      Yuri seemed a little put out the next morning when he came to collect Yuuri to watch Mila skate, only to find him packing to leave.

      “I thought Yakov told you,” Yuuri started, putting a hand on Yuri’s shoulder.

      Yuri raised a light blond eyebrow but didn’t shrug Yuuri off. “Yakov is already on the way to the rink with Mila. Come on, Lilia is waiting in the lobby.”

      “I’m sorry, Yurio, if things were any different I’d stay in a heartbeat. But I have to get home.”

      “Oh.”

      “I really _am_ sorry, Yurio. Please give Mila all my best.”

      “Whatever. Next time I see you, it’ll be in Barcelona kicking your fat ass!”

      Yuuri smiled. Some things hadn’t changed, and he was glad for that.

 

      It was very late – or very early, depending on how you looked at it – when Yuuri’s plane touched down at Fukuoka International. He’d only been in touch with his family and Viktor to tell them when he’d be home; he expected, given the hour, that Yamamoto would send someone to collect him.

      Over the course of the flight, Yuuri hadn’t stopped thinking about Viktor. For practically his whole life, he’d been pushing himself to get to the same level as Viktor, to skate against him – _with_ him. And now, Viktor was his coach and Yuuri still felt like he was falling short, like he’d never be enough. If the Rostelecom Cup was any indicator, this couldn’t go on anymore. Admitting that to himself was one of the most painful things Yuuri thought he’d ever had to do. It wasn’t realistic, and it wasn’t fair – Viktor was wasting his time, coaching Yuuri when he could be breaking his own world records and bringing inspiration to hundreds of thousands of aspiring skaters and potential competitors alike. And knowing that Viktor was in a crime syndicate just as Yuuri was drove the point home even more that Yuuri was a waste of time. There were far more important things to be concerned with.

      For all the love Yuuri had for Viktor, the love that was so strong it was like a being in and of itself, he knew that realistically this coach-student relationship couldn’t continue. And it wasn’t all bad, really – Yuuri could finally say that he’d been on the same ice as Viktor.

_Viktor, there’s a lot I want to tell you,_ he mentally rehearsed. _What do I say first?_ He trudged through the arrivals gate with a flock of other people. If Yuuri could’ve, he would have liked to be somewhere in a gym – sparring or dancing or _something_ – because he didn’t want to think right now. He just wanted to push himself to his limits; he wanted to sweat. But that wasn’t an option, and instead he had to deal with his thoughts. He was selfish and cowardly – this conversation was going to _hurt_ , it was going to be excruciating, and part of Yuuri didn’t want to have it at all. He wanted to pretend everything was fine; he wanted to keep the attention Viktor gave him and never let anyone else share it. But he couldn’t keep Viktor in the dark. He needed to know.

      Yuuri was halfway through the glass-walled passage to baggage claim, lost in thought, when he heard a bark. He froze – surely it was his imagination, so caught up in thinking of Viktor (and by proxy, Makkachin). But then he heard the bark again and looked up. A familiar brown, fuzzy dog was ambling over to jump up and press his paws against the glass opposite Yuuri. _Makkachin_.

      The air left Yuuri’s lungs, and all the things he wanted to say flew out of his mind when he saw Viktor get to his feet behind Makkachin. They locked eyes, and then Viktor was staggering backwards, and turning. Yuuri broke into a run, pulled his germ mask down from over his face. His eyes met Viktor’s again, and he didn’t look away. They ran side-by-side on the opposite sides of the glass wall, matched like two magnets.

      The automatic sliding doors couldn’t open fast enough, and when they did, Viktor had his arms out for Yuuri to fall into. People were staring but he didn’t care. Yuuri clung to Viktor, and Viktor held tight to him, too. They were both panting, chests pushing together in tandem. Breathing in the rose and sandalwood and musk of Viktor felt like Yuuri was taking his first breath after being underwater for too long.

      “Yuuri,” Viktor said into Yuuri’s neck, “I’ve been thinking about what I can do as your coach from now on.”

      “Me, too,” Yuuri whispered into Viktor’s collarbone. Tears were welling in his eyes, and it felt like all the emotions he’d felt over the last few days were coming crashing back down on him. Roughly, he pushed himself away from Viktor to hold him at arm’s length. Viktor stumbled, having to take a step back from how he’d been standing with his one foot between Yuuri’s. His eyes were wide, questioning, and looking at him, Yuuri could see signs of exhaustion and worry etched into his face like he’d never seen before.

      “Viktor, please be my coach until I retire,” Yuuri said, his voice coming up with uncertainty at the end. _That_ is _what I want – I want him to watch over me, to be with me to the end. He just doesn’t know that I’ll retire when the Grand Prix is over._

      Viktor blinked at him, and Yuuri was trying to prepare himself for rejection – because what if Viktor thought Yuuri intended to have a career skating until he was thirty? – when Viktor took Yuuri’s left hand from his shoulder. To his surprise, Viktor brought Yuuri’s hand to his mouth and kissed his ring finger, his whole body seeming to lose a bushel of tension all at once. “You know, that almost sounds like a marriage proposal, pыбка.”

_Marriage proposal_ … everything else went out of Yuuri’s mind. Seeing Viktor smile like that, his tired eyes bright with emotion, broke the last of Yuuri’s resolve. He stepped flush with Viktor and put his arms around his neck and raised his chin to gently bump Viktor’s, silently asking. Viktor seemed all too happy to oblige Yuuri in a deep kiss, holding him with one arm around his waist and the other under Yuuri’s jaw. It felt like a kiss from an old Hollywood movie. When he withdrew, he stroked his thumb over Yuuri’s cheekbone.

      “I wish you’d never retire, then, Yuuri,” he said softly.

_Marriage, marriage, marriage. Is he saying he’d marry me?_ Me _, Katsuki Yuuri?_ _He doesn’t know how despicable I am, doesn’t realize how selfish._ Yuuri pressed his face back into Viktor’s shoulder to hide the tears welling again in his eyes. There was no disguising it, though; the tears were obvious in his voice as he said, “Let’s win gold together at the Final, Viktor.”

      Makkachin, noticing Yuuri’s tears, got on his hind legs and pressed a paw to both Yuuri and Viktor. For a moment, they were all together – they were _whole_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a reminder of my original DISCLAIMER:  
> I speak only English, German, and some Spanish, so any Russian or Japanese is sourced online. I don't figure skate or dance, and I don't know martial arts; I ride dressage. I'm not in any organized crime syndicate or have any personal experience with them, other than rumors. My knowledge on them is from months of research, and I'm always learning. Now, with that out of the way, let's quickly look at
> 
> TERMINOLOGY:  
> shatei - 'little brother'; an entry-level or young member of a yakuza  
> kyodai - 'big brother'; a member of the yakuza who is not ranked above a shateigashira  
> shateigashira - '2nd lieutenant'; boss of a regional/local gang
> 
> If anyone following my [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats)saw that post about waking up at 2:30 am to add in a big chunk of potentially plot-altering text, it was in reference to this chapter! 0:)
> 
> Did y'all catch those Yuuri & Yuri interactions? Man I live for those. And I had to physically restrain myself from writing milasara lol  
> This chapter kicks off the Big Angst arc that I've been consumed by tweaking and trying to perfect for the last week and a half (when I decided it needed to be more so). We're also moving up to where I'm currently writing (working through chapter 18 currently) instead of posting chapters that I've had written since March.  
> The following chapters with the exception of one (that I know of) are all going to be long like this - between 7 and 8.5k each ! So if that's what you're into, cheers, if not, I'm sorry, but I'd love if you continued to read along.
> 
> Looking for a visual of Viktor's tattoos, playlists for the characters or work as a whole, or some of my inspiration/references? I've compiled them (and am still collecting them) [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading this fic, and thank you even more for leaving comments and kudos. I'm always here to take your thoughts - I'm very grateful for the response I've had so far, and I appreciate every interaction.  
> And next week? Viktor's got something important to tell Yuuri.


	14. Our Days Are Not Numbered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _a sky full of messages sealed in bottles_   
>  _smash the omens:_   
>  _our days are not numbered_
> 
>  
> 
> Viktor decides it's time Yuuri knew about his past - everything unsavory he's been holding between his shadow and soul
> 
> (there's some fluff in here I promise it's not entirely angst!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'between the breaths' by xiu xiu and mitski
> 
> ✨content warning ✨ mentions of substance abuse (not in detail); references to past thoughts of death (not exactly suicidal ideation, but in the same vein), and some references to societal homophobia 
> 
>  PS - there's mention of a past relationship between chris and viktor; it's honestly so insubstantial it's not worth putting in the tags, and i hope the context it's in will support my decision.

      There was about a month between the Rostelecom Cup and the Grand Prix Final, which was being held in Barcelona. Viktor was determined to make the most of the time; he told Yuuri that he’d help him win gold, and he had every intention of making good his word.

      Viktor loved the early mornings when he could watch as Yuuri slept, his round cheeks smushed into the pillow, his dark eyelashes stark against his skin, his mouth making soft sounds with each exhale. Viktor had never been able to sleep like that, so deeply and comfortably. Even now, happier than he’d ever been, his body wouldn’t let him sleep more than a few hours – he was evidently going to be early to bed and early to rise forever. Before, in his adolescence, he’d hated how wakeful he was, hated that his body kept to a time schedule when all he wanted was to escape from the world for just a little longer.

      Now that they knew each other’s tattoos, there wasn’t the need to conceal them. Viktor loved to study the lines of Yuuri’s koi whenever he could, the obvious movement the artist had captured in the curve of its scales and the crashing waves around it. And what was more was that Yuuri’s koi was done in the traditional Japanese style, all hand-poked. What awe Viktor had felt looking at the yakuza man he now knew as Yamamoto who’d interrupted him and Yuuri in the hot spring and his full suit of tattoos was somehow exponentially greater looking at Yuuri’s. Perhaps this was because he’d known Yuuri first as someone drunk and carefree, grinding on him at a banquet, and then as a serious, sensitive skater easily overwhelmed by self-doubt and the opinions of others. And somehow he had the strength, too, to sit and be tattooed in an extremely painful manner for hours. It made Viktor’s heart swell with pride. _He’s so strong, so strong in so many ways. I love him, every part of him, even the parts I don’t yet know._

      Yuuri often woke up by reaching out to touch Viktor in some way; he was apparently fond of stroking a sleepy fingertip along the epaulette tattoo on Viktor’s shoulder, or up his sternum between the antlers of the leaping deer and the center of the five-rayed sun. Better still were the mornings when Yuuri would close the distance between them to press his face insistently into the side of Viktor’s neck or the dip of his collarbone. The feeling of Yuuri’s warm skin slipping against his own was enough to give Viktor something of a hard-on, even if he greeted Yuuri with chaste kisses and clear eyes.

      And since Yuuri had revealed in Moscow that he was learning Russian, his customary greeting (spoken against Viktor’s skin, half-slurred from sleep) was “Доброе утро, _Vi-ku-to-ruuu_ ,”

      Viktor’s stomach would threaten to light on fire, and every time Yuuri drew his name out like that it was like someone had drawn the tip of their finger all the way down his spine, sending shivers through his whole body. So Viktor would swallow back the urge to jump Yuuri’s bones then and there and instead rest a hand on the full part of Yuuri’s hip and say back, “おはよう私の愛.”

      Usually that was enough to wake Yuuri up all the way, and he’d sit up and stretch with a yawn. Viktor would watch him hungrily, the careless way the sheets would slip from around him, leaving his torso bare to the morning light coming through the windows. Makkachin would usually climb up from where he’d been asleep on Yuuri’s other side to curl up in the warm place where Yuuri had been lying; Viktor didn’t feel jealous like he once had, knowing Makkachin loved Yuuri as much as he did. Sometimes if he was feeling bold, Viktor would wrap his arms around Yuuri’s waist and try to pull him back down to the mattress; Yuuri was stronger than he looked, and he’d slip out of Viktor’s grasp easily, laughing.

      “I’m _awake_ , Viktor, don’t tempt me or I’ll be in bed all day.”

      Viktor didn’t think that would be too much of a loss, but the Final was coming up and there wasn’t time to waste – not when he was going to make sure Yuuri won gold.

      Their morning routine hadn’t changed too much, now that Yuuri was past the qualifiers and preparing for the Final. They would climb out of bed, each of their bodies a small symphony of creaking and popping joints, and dress. When they went down stairs, hands brushing but not clasped together, Makkachin would follow on their heels.

      Hiroko always greeted them with a wide smile, and Viktor would leave Yuuri’s side to kiss her on the cheek. He’d missed having a mother figure in his life so much more than he realized – it had been more than a decade now since his mama died, and Hiroko was one of the best things to have happened to him. When Viktor had had to fly back to Japan after Makkachin choked on a steamed bun, it was Hiroko who held him while he cried, smoothing his hair down and telling him comforting things in Japanese even as he wept and apologized in Russian.

      The only member of the Katsuki family who held Viktor still somewhat at arm’s length was Mari. Viktor tried not to take this too hard; she was analytical and cautious, just as Yuuri was, but without the rose-tinted glasses that Yuuri had worn in regards to Viktor for years and years. She didn’t ever say too much to Viktor, though she was polite and not unpleasant to be around. Viktor didn’t begrudge her the caution, either: Mari was older than him, and had been dealing with her own family’s involvement in the yakuza for as long as or longer than Viktor had been involved in his bratva. She knew how to assess situations, and how to minimize risks and casualties, Viktor was sure of that. And it seemed to Viktor that the person Mari cared most about was Yuuri – and there was no way he’d ever argue with that. She didn’t want Yuuri hurt, and that was the last thing Viktor wanted, too.

 

⋆

 

      On the twenty-fifth of November, Viktor and Yuuri awoke and dressed to go to the rink, just like always. It was chilly in their room, and a dull ache was building up in Viktor’s thigh where pins held his bone together. He ignored the pain, though, and smiled when he caught Yuuri’s eye across the bed. When they were halfway down the stairs, Viktor looked over to see that Yuuri was wearing one of his shirts, a soft raglan that had a wide enough neckline that Viktor could see the waves of Yuuri’s koi tattoo.

      “Oh, _no,_ Katsuki,” Viktor said, catching Yuuri around the waist and keeping him from going any further down the stairs.

      “What?” Yuuri looked up at him, glasses slipped down his nose just a touch.

      Viktor almost lost his resolve at that. _How is he so perfect?_ “You’re in my shirt, that’s not fair,”

      For a moment, Viktor thought Yuuri was going to relent without argument, but instead he demurred, “Oh, come _on_ , all our clothes are pretty much in the same place, it’s not that big a deal. Plus this is soft, and I look _good_ in it,”

      Viktor bit his tongue. He absolutely lived for Yuuri saying positive things about himself, absolutely _loved_ it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, turning to go back up the stairs, “but it’s still not fair.”

      Yuuri rolled his eyes, but followed Viktor anyway. “Are you really going to make me change?”

      “No,” Viktor said, moving his hand from Yuuri’s waist to hold his hand. Yuuri rocked forward a little to give Viktor a questioning look.

      “You’ve walked past our room…”

      “I’m not going to our room.” Viktor said, fighting a smile even more as realization dawned on Yuuri’s face.

      “Viktor, _no_ ,”

      Viktor didn’t stop, and Yuuri didn’t really try to hold him back, instead grumbling complaints. The door to Yuuri’s room was solid wood, unlike the thin screen of the banquet room-turned-bedroom where Viktor stayed; it was familiar to Viktor, even though he’d only been on the other side of it once. When Yuuri was flying back from Moscow, Mari had shown Viktor his room as a means of threatening Viktor not to fuck the relationship up, and since then Viktor had been hatching this plan.

      “Wait, Viktor – look, you were my idol when I was younger, so –”

      Viktor tried to make his face look surprised, like this was new information. Yuuri scowled at him, one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t make fun of me, I _mean_ it.”

      “I promise I won’t, pыбка,” Viktor said, dropping a kiss behind Yuuri’s ear. “I’m just here so I can get one of _your_ shirts to wear.”

      Yuuri was an impressive shade of pink, but he opened the door. Viktor decided at the last moment not to give Yuuri hell about the collection of posters staring down at them from the walls – some from photoshoots Viktor didn’t even remember doing. Instead, pretending like everything about the room was quite normal, he went straight for the wardrobe in the far corner of the room. Yuuri was still a bright pink, but he was doing his best to maintain a scowl. He sat down in his desk chair and, though he was pretending to be indifferent, Viktor could feel his gaze.

 _It’s got to be in here_ , Viktor thought, trying not to rumple the neatly folded clothes in the wardrobe. As soon as he’d seen the posters of himself on the walls, he’d remembered a shirt sold by an international figure skating shop, one that Yuuri most certainly had. With a muffled sound of triumph, he pulled it from the drawer and held it up for Yuuri to see.

      His eyes went wide. “No. Absolutely not.”

      “Yes, _please_ , Yuuri, I love it. It’s the best, please –”

      “Do you know how much of an ass you’ll look like, wearing a shirt with your own image on it? That says ‘Viktor Nikiforov’s Number 1 Fan’?”

      Viktor clutched the shirt against his chest. It had a faded image of him in his lilac fairy costume, with his waist-length hair and a crown of blue roses. It was obvious that the shirt was well worn, stretched out and washed until it was thin and soft. “Please?”

      Yuuri swore under his breath, and Viktor fought not to grin even wider – he knew Yuuri’s tells pretty well by now; Yuuri was going to let him wear the shirt. “You’re gonna look like an ass,” he told Viktor.

      Viktor swooped across the room to cover Yuuri’s face in kisses. “I love you, I love you, I _love_ you!”

      Yuuri laughed, finally dropping the irritated scowl. “I love you too, you silly man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when Yuuko leaves the rink and shows up again with her matching shirt.”

 

      Half the practice days were spent running through Yuuri’s problem areas with _Eros_ and _Yūri on Ice_ ; the other half were spent concocting Yuuri’s exhibition skate, which Viktor wanted to skate with him. Viktor had never skated pairs before, and Yuuri had only ever skated pairs with Yuuko as a child, without a coach or any semblance of finesse. Far from being stress-free, the practices were often taut with emotion. Viktor would get frustrated trying to re-choreograph _Stammi Vicino_ for two and in turn get after Yuuri’s more minor problem areas; Yuuri would get distant and defiant, sometimes arguing with Viktor or, even worse, taking his every word literally to spite him.

      Even after the worst of days, though, when both bodies were aching from being on the ice and emotions were running hot and high, Yuuri and Viktor would meet in the middle of the ice and start a cool-down together. Sometimes this involved playing at death spirals; more often, this was a chance for them to hold hands and talk about arbitrary things – the way the leaves were changing on the trees in the garden behind Yu-topia, a recent post someone like Yuri, Christophe, or Phichit had made on Instagram, or Viktor’s budding interest in American movies (the more weirder or more overlooked, the better). It hurt when Yuuri thought too much about it – he hadn’t forgotten what he’d planned to say to Viktor on that solitary flight home from Moscow. It hurt because he knew Viktor didn’t have a clue. It hurt because part of him was constantly arguing, _look at how good we are together! Look at how he understands me and I understand him; look at how even when we’re on our worst behavior we have this understanding. Would a man unwillingly stolen from the world flourish like this, would his mouth form hearts, would his eyes light up like the sky after a storm? And what if I’m wrong?_

      Yuuri had these thoughts almost nonstop, but he swallowed them back and let them get caught up in his irritation at the quad flip or Viktor’s incessant need to post selfies, because in the end everything else would be soothed and his self-doubt and quiet anguish would eventually quiet down. Today was no different, though maybe a little better. Yuuri smiled every time he saw Viktor skate by in his old shirt, and Viktor smiled back whenever he caught Yuuri’s eye. _I wish it could be like this always, just the two of us – no mafias, no ninkyō dantai, no ISU, no fans, no prying eyes. Just us._

      Perhaps Viktor had a similar thought. He skated a loop around Yuuri and caught his hand. “Рыбка, can we go somewhere after dinner? The beach, maybe?”

      Yuuri pursed his lips, but he couldn’t deny the prick of warmth below his belt at the thought of going out after dark with Viktor. _It’s like I’m a teenager again, Jesus_. Trying his best to sound unbothered, he said, “It may be a little chilly for the beach…”

      Viktor adjusted his grip on Yuuri’s hand to lace their fingers together. “We can bring blankets, then. Okay?”

      Yuuri smiled in spite of himself, totally sold the moment Viktor batted his eyelashes. Lately he’d been wearing less makeup, and Yuuri loved that his eyelashes were as platinum as his hair. _No point in playing coy when he knows he’s won_ , Yuuri thought, turning into Viktor’s chest and wrapping an arm around his neck. “Okay.”

 

      Viktor was nervous. He’d been trying to figure out how to have this conversation for a long time, but the need for it to happen had only intensified since he met Yuuri at the Fukuoka International Airport. He played the words back in his mind: _it’s almost like a marriage proposal, pыбка_. The idea hadn’t even crossed his mind before; now, the idea of marrying Yuuri, of being with him always, was almost all Viktor could think of.

      The sun set earlier these days, with winter fast approaching, but Viktor and Yuuri were out of the house before it had sunk fully behind the horizon. Yuuri was right; the closer they walked to the beach, the chillier the breeze became. Yuuri didn’t show any sign of wanting to turn back, though, and Viktor doubled down on his resolve _. I’ve got to tell him, I’ve got to tell him tonight. He deserves to know._

      Like it usually was on their evening forays to the beach, Viktor and Yuuri were alone with the water. Of course, Makkachin was with them – as soon as they’d gotten the largest blanket spread out, Makkachin claimed a corner and promptly fell asleep. It wasn’t too cool on the beach, even with the occasional breeze off the water. Before dinner, Viktor and Yuuri had both soaked in the onsen. Now, they were dressed in warm loungewear – Yuuri was once again in Viktor’s clothes (a sweatshirt that read _Балетная труппа Большого театра_ in faded gold lettering and a pair of joggers that were slightly long in the leg and slightly tight on his hips), probably to spite Viktor in a teasing way, and Viktor was in the big black sweatshirt Yuuri told him he liked to wear after being tattooed.

      Night was properly falling around them, and Viktor pulled three stubby candles from the basket they’d carried the blankets in. Mari had been the one to put them in the basket, stepping on Viktor’s toe and leaning into his personal space to say, “You say you love my baby brother, and you’ve kept him in the dark this whole time. He doesn’t even know who you really are – which, honestly, is a joke because I thought we’d raised him better. But I know, and I’m not going to let you delude him any longer – so it’s now or never, Nikiforov.”

      It was a nice touch, anyway.

      Yuuri watched with interest as Viktor set the candles on the blanket, positioned so that their bodies would block the occasional breeze that may put the fires out, and produced a lighter from the pocket of his Nike pants.

      “I didn’t know you smoked,” he said in what he hoped was a conversational tone of voice. He’d asked the question the last time he’d seen Viktor holding that grubby lighter, but Viktor hadn’t answered him then.

      Viktor looked sheepish. It was hard to tell, but he thought that perhaps Viktor’s cheeks had flushed a little, too. “I _don’t_ ,”

      “But you’re carrying a lighter,” Yuuri sounded accusatory to his own ears. The presumed flush on Viktor’s cheeks darkened.

      “I didn’t finish. I don’t smoke _anymore_.”

      “But you carry a lighter still?”

      Viktor raised his chin a little, put his shoulders back like he was getting ready to recite a monologue. “Yes. It’s to remind myself that I make a choice every day not to smoke anymore. It’s a kind of test to my strength; easily, I could ask someone for a cigarette and have one then and there. But I make the choice to keep my lungs clear, to keep my nose clean, as Americans say. I’m the only thing standing between my past habits and a healthier – happier – life.”

      Yuuri didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. There was an odd tension between them, one that had been growing since practice earlier at Ice Castle Hasetsu. But Yuuri couldn’t place why, and it made his skin prickle.

      “Viktor, is – is everything okay?”

      Viktor didn’t answer right away, and the prickling of Yuuri’s skin intensified so it was like he had bugs crawling all over him. Still, Viktor didn’t push Yuuri in difficult moments, so Yuuri wouldn’t push Viktor. He owed him that much.

      Finally Viktor heaved a great sigh (that made even Makkachin raise his head and tilt it questioningly to the side) and glanced fleetingly at Yuuri through his bangs. “I, uh… I need to tell you about my past, pыбка.”

      The concern Yuuri was feeling spiked dangerously. He reached for Viktor’s hand. “Did something happen?”

      Viktor let Yuuri grasp his hand, but didn’t tighten his fingers in response. “No, I didn’t say that right. I want to tell you about my past, it’s just… it’s complicated, and I’ve been avoiding it for a while.”

      Yuuri’s blood was cold in his veins. _Why won’t he hold my hand?_ His voice was a cracked whisper as he asked, “Are you breaking up with me?”

      If it had been any other situation, Yuuri would’ve laughed at the look of surprise on Viktor’s face. “Боже мой, no, _no_! That’s the opposite of – oh, Yuuri, come here,” Viktor opened his arms and Yuuri fell into them, nearly missing one of the flickering candles. With his ear against Viktor’s chest, Yuuri could hear his heart beating like the wings of a bird, like a frightened deer. It did nothing to comfort him, not even when Viktor was kneading the tight knots of muscle in Yuuri’s shoulder and dropping kisses to the crown of his head, saying, “I’m not, I could never, I could _never_ , my love.”

      Yuuri’s stomach swooped dangerously at that, and when he sat back after a moment, Viktor reached out to push his hair out of his eyes. He explained, his voice soft but steadier, “We’ve both said to each other that some things are complicated. And you’ve made your life more clear to me. It’s only fair if I do the same – because Yuuri, I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone before. If anyone should know my most shadowed parts, it’s you. If you’ll let me share them with you, of course.”

      Yuuri’s heart was racing more than he thought Viktor’s had been, and his hands were starting to feel clammy, but he nodded anyway. “All I ever really learned about you over the years is what I’ve read in magazines or heard from other skaters. And I mean,” Yuuri tried a weak attempt at a joke, “you saw my _room_ , so you know I’ve been in it for the long haul since I was a kid…”

      Viktor’s lips quirked at the corners, but he didn’t properly smile. It made Yuuri’s chest ache. What was so horrible that Viktor had worked himself into a state like this over? Moving like his body was coated in lead, Viktor settled perhaps more comfortably on the blanket. Now he looked at Yuuri and didn’t look away.

      “So, as my fan,” he started, a more substantial ghost of a smile on his lips now, “you know that I didn’t compete for a chunk of time between the ages of, hmmm…”

      “Seventeen and twenty-two.” Yuuri interrupted without thinking, but those five years had impacted him greatly. _And no one has ever revealed what happened those years… I know Christophe mentioned seeing him to me when we met at competitions, but he never said… he never said._

      Viktor smiled properly, finally, but he looked tired in the candlelight. “Yes, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two. This story kind of begins with something you already know – I had a major injury.”

      Yuuri nodded. He remembered the headlines across every skating magazine he was subscribed to; he remembered the way reading it had made him physically ill.

      “Did Yakov ever let them report on what it was that happened? I was never much for reading about myself.”

      Yuuri bit his lip. “All the magazines only said you’d been injured while training. Nothing specific, just that you’d be out for an indeterminate amount of time.”

      “Figures. I guess he couldn’t bear to humanize _Viktor Nikiforov,_ the _World Wonder_.” Viktor chuckled, but it was a cold sound, and Yuuri shivered. “Training injury is right, though. I was practicing quads – Yakov never really let me train them often, so with all my youthful vigor, I attacked them whenever he gave me the chance. Well, I lacked basic skill, I guess, or maybe I had done some cocaine and wasn’t thinking like I should’ve – can’t remember. But I landed a quad flip badly, and I broke my hip.”

      “Jesus _fuck_ ,” Yuuri hissed. He’d always heard horror stories like that about poorly executed quads, but he’d never known anyone to actually injure themselves like that. Yuuri had broken bones before, but split knuckles from punching without wrapping his hands and cracked ribs from falling didn’t compare. “Your right hip?”

      The corner of Viktor’s lip lifted mirthlessly. “They say it’s a broken _hip_ , but really the broken bone was in my thigh. Yeah, my right leg, my landing leg.”

      If Yuuri wasn’t already seated, he thought he would’ve fallen to his knees. For anyone, an injury like that could be life changing. For a skater, it could be career-ending; it could be the ruin of a whole life. “Oh, Viktor…”

      Viktor reached over to squeeze Yuuri’s hand, too hard. “It’s alright, pыбка, they put me back together with pins and plates and I was able to keep skating to become Russia’s Hero, remember?”

      He spoke in such a sardonic tone that Yuuri flinched. Whatever hurt Viktor had been dancing around mentioning, this wasn’t it. _What happened to him, what happened to this beautiful man that I love? What hurt him?_ Viktor moved his hand away and turned out to look at the dark waves hitting the shore. Maybe he read the emotion in Yuuri’s eyes, even in the low light between them; maybe, like Yuuri, he didn’t want to be pitied, not when he was feeling vulnerable like this. Yuuri did his best to compose his face into a blank mask, but he was afraid he’d lose it all to tears if Viktor looked at him a certain way.

      “I guess it’s not _too_ complicated of a story. Being injured and laid up for an indeterminate amount of time, I started to act out. Well, act out more than I had been. By this time, I was already living with Lilia and Yakov – I lived with them for nearly a decade, from the age of thirteen until Yakov was certain I wouldn’t fall back into my old ways – but Lilia was always in Moscow and Yakov was busy with… a number of things.”

      As Viktor spoke, he pulled Yuuri’s sweatshirt off, balling it in his lap. Underneath, he wore a rumpled, pinstriped button-up with the sleeves folded up over his elbows. It was a casual if not sloppy look, but Viktor looked as much like a model as ever in Yuuri’s eyes. He bit his lip, waiting for Viktor to continue; it seemed like he was steeling himself up for something. And then, Viktor began to unbutton his shirt.

      When the shirt was open to reveal the dark tattoos over his torso, Viktor raised his eyes to meet Yuuri’s again. “There were enabling factors, as there almost always are in these sorts of cases, but this was also around the time I began to be involved with a bratva.” Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath, and Viktor’s brow creased; he hesitated again, apparently unsure of how much to reveal about his crime family. “From as much as I’ve said, you’ve probably guessed that Yakov is involved with the bratva, too?”

      Yuuri nodded. Viktor was kneading the black sweatshirt like it was a stress ball.

      “So Yakov is involved, I’m involved, and Lilia is involved by proxy, but that’s it. Yurio isn’t a part of anything, his _mother_ wasn’t, and none of the other skaters under Yakov are a part of a bratva.”

      Yuuri bit his lip again. From the way Viktor said it, it sounded like he either knew Yuri’s mother or that Yuri’s father had been involved in a bratva – or perhaps both. “I’d wondered about Yurio, when he first came to Japan to retrieve you.”

      Viktor gave Yuuri a half-smile that looked roguish in the candlelight. Shadows were playing off the inked designs on his chest, distorting them. “You decided he wasn’t?”

      “He didn’t have any tattoos like yours. And when he walked in on me shirtless one day, he didn’t recognize my tattoo for what it is. Not to mention that he’s _fifteen_ …”

      Viktor’s smile disappeared. He shrugged one half of his shirt back so it fell open even more. Yuuri pursed his lips _. I know I’ve pissed him off, but is stripping the way to fix that?_ he wondered. Viktor twisted and raised his arm so the large, intricate cross was clearly visible over his right-side ribcage.

      “This one I got when I was seventeen.” His Russian accent seemed thicker in that statement.

      Yuuri bit his lip, leaning forward to look at the cross like Viktor apparently wanted him to. He hadn’t meant to act like young people weren’t involved in the criminal world (Yuuri himself had tried to properly join the ninkyō dantai at fourteen, right after Viktor had disappeared from skating), but he’d obviously hit a nerve.

      Ribcages were notoriously uncomfortable to have tattooed, and this one was the largest of Viktor’s tattoos. With its positioning, Yuuri didn’t usually see it as clearly as he saw, for example, the mirrored Cyrillic tattoo. Even in the low light, though, it was obvious that a lower quality ink was used for it, or that it hadn’t healed as neatly as the other tattoos.

       Viktor glanced up through his bangs to find Yuuri’s eyes again. “It was my first. A pretty common tattoo to see on Russian thieves – or at least it _was_ , back in the day before Khrushchev.” At Yuuri’s raised eyebrow, Viktor smirked. “I’m not a _thief_ , if that’s what you’re wondering. In Russian criminal code – in воровской мир – a professional criminal or someone who leads a criminal lifestyle is a ‘thief’, even if that’s not their trade. We know that from history; that’s something that goes back to the tsars, though it was Stalin’s treatment of criminals in gulags that really led to the uprising of воровской мир… anyway, I was high on painkillers after my surgery to set my femur, and the first thing I did when they let me out of that goddamn hospital was find a friend of a friend who agreed to tattoo me. The thieves’ cross is what this is called. It’s in the wrong place, though.”

      Viktor moved his hand from where he’d been holding his nonexistent fat of his stomach back for Yuuri to better see the tattoo on his ribs and instead drew a line down the center of his chest with the tips of his fingers. “In the early to mid-nineteen-hundreds, the tattoo would be here. It would say ‘I am вор в зако́не; I shirk traditional authority and govern what the government does not’. For me, it was a way of kicking dirt in Yakov’s face.” Viktor broke off and looked out to the ocean again. Yuuri could see his hands shaking; Yuuri’s own hands were clutched in tight fists by his sides.

      “Yakov never wanted me to be in the bratva like this. He did his best for several years to keep it separate from me. But I was very entitled; I didn’t think that anything should be kept from me, not when I’d had so much taken away from me in my life... So against his will, I carved a place for myself in the secret criminal world. Started by taking cigarettes from the brigadiers who would come to the house to meet with him.” The corner of Viktor’s mouth lifted up again, like he was remembering something amusing.

      “And after you made a place for yourself…?"

      Viktor shrugged. “Yakov moved me through the ranks faster than someone normally would move; that way, he could watch over me directly. He couldn’t watch me all the time, though. Not when he still had skaters at the rink to watch over. So I was given strict instructions,” Viktor’s bitter tone shifted into a gruff imitation of Yakov’s voice. ‘“Take your medicine, do your physical therapy, don’t talk to any of the shestyorka, and don’t smoke in the fucking house or Lilia will have my head!”

      Viktor ran a hand through his hair and smiled at Yuuri, as if letting him in on a joke. “Naturally, I didn’t listen to a single thing he said. Well, I didn’t smoke in the house, so there’s that at least.”

      Yuuri tried to smile back, but a feeling of horror was building in his throat. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more of this, not when the raw emotion was so clear in Viktor’s voice. This had happened ten years ago, but the hurt it all caused was still real. _How can he smile, explaining this to me? Has he had that little regard for his own life?_

      Perhaps Viktor read something of this in Yuuri’s wide eyes, because he shrugged again and looked down at the black sweatshirt still in his lap. “It’s not a big deal. Being under the kind of pressure I was with the eyes of the world on me, I guess a breakdown had been imminent for a long time. The kind of pain that I was in would be difficult for anyone, probably, but I decided to deal with it by abusing painkillers and smoking too much. Didn’t help myself, either, by refusing to stay on top of my physical therapy.” He tapped the place on his leg where, under his pants, the long scar sat. “This thing healed ugly; well, you've seen it, haven't you? I kept popping stitches when I’d sneak out of the house to meet the bratva’s sixes or people I'd met in clubs.”

      “Idiot,” Yuuri whispered.

      Viktor’s eyebrows shot up, reproving. “Yuuri –”

      “Viktor, you fucking _idiot_ ,” Yuuri repeated, his voice cracking. He felt like his throat was on fire. “How could you have had such little regard for yourself? When there are so many around you who have loved you, who cared about you –”

      It was Viktor’s turn to interrupt. “It doesn’t _matter_ how many people love you when you don’t love yourself,” he snapped, making an angry motion with his hands. “I know it was stupid _now_ , but at the time I thought I’d just lost the one thing I’d had left to live for. So yeah, it felt pretty damn justified when I became a little addict and I ran with petty street thugs and flouted all the support and protection I’d been given by Yakov and Lilia after my mother died. Maybe I was a _fucking idiot_ , but I don’t know what you’d have had me do. You don’t know what it was _like_. You don’t understand just how _low_ it got for me.”

      He was breathing hard after raising his voice, and for several long heartbeats Viktor and Yuuri sat in silence. Makkachin was awakened by Viktor shouting, and now he moved from the corner of the blanket to sit between Viktor and Yuuri, looking like a small bear with his thick coat and lumbering movement. Yuuri hastily moved candles out of the way so Makkachin didn’t light himself on fire. Unbothered, the old poodle settled again with his head resting on Viktor’s legs and his back legs in Yuuri’s lap.

      And then Viktor whispered, “Please don’t cry, pыбка, you know I’m bad with tears,”

      Yuuri raised a hand to his cheek and was surprised to find it wet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize…”

      “It’s alright,” Viktor said, looking not at Yuuri but down at Makkachin, who was wagging his tail absently, head pillowed on Yuuri’s black sweatshirt in Viktor’s lap. “The story isn’t all sad. I’m here, anyway… Yakov caught on eventually when it became clear that I was spending more time high than minding my physical therapy. It scared him – he knew that my skating was my life, and it didn’t make sense to him that suddenly I was neglecting the one thing that could make or break my return. So he sent me to rehab in Moscow a little after I turned eighteen.” Two of the candles flickered out with the sea breeze.

      “Oh.” _Eighteen? But he didn’t return to skating until he was twenty-two, does that mean he was in rehab the whole time?_

      “It was pretty terrible at first. They cut my hair off, so for a while I was mourning that loss… and I didn’t have Makkachin to keep me company, just the other privileged, rich addicts who’d been hidden away by parents or guardians.” Viktor ruffled the pouf on top of Makkachin’s head, and Makkachin sighed. “I was still an asshole, though, still making stupid decisions. It became a trick of mine to hoard the painkillers I _was_ allowed, or to find ways of getting away from my minders at the rehab place, and on several occasions I made it out of the facility as a whole.”

      He smiled in a cold, mocking sort of way – but to his surprise, Yuuri found a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, too. It sounded so ridiculous, but he could picture it, in a way – Viktor was very much someone who liked to be in control, and he hated being told what to do. It made sense that he’d do anything to get away from doctors, especially if part of what was fueling his escape was an addiction to painkillers.

      “On one of the occasions that I got all the way out of the facility, I was able to call up a six – a shestyorka, I don’t know what the yakuza equivalent of him would be called – who was in the area. He took me to a tattoo parlor in a town where I wasn’t recognized me as a figure skating world record holder, and I got the deer tattooed.” Viktor tapped the leaping deer across his stomach for emphasis. “It’s an older design – like the cross, I decided to go with a tattoo with outdated symbolism. This one is another ‘fuck you’ to Yakov, kinda – it represents someone who likes to escape. And I guess I _am_ flighty, in general. I mean, I left Russia and came to Japan to find you on a whim of inspiration, didn’t I?”

      Yuuri smiled in spite of himself. “That’s true.”

      The wild look that had entered Viktor’s eyes earlier had faded; he was looking at Yuuri through his eyelashes, a small smile on his lips. “And wouldn’t you know that by the time I returned to the rehab facility after getting tattooed – don’t look surprised, I’d sobered up enough by then that I wasn’t fighting the idea of getting better quite so much – Yakov was waiting for me.”

      Yuuri chuckled and rubbed a hand over his face, swiping the last of the drying tears away. “Fuck. I’m sure he was livid.”

      “That’s an understatement. He was mortified, more that I could’ve been recognized as myself while wearing a literal hospital bracelet with the rehab facility’s name on it than he was upset that I got the deer tattoo.”

      “Oh.” The bitter tone was edging back into Viktor’s voice _. He’s upset because of the emphasis Yakov has always put on his image, rather than his wellbeing. He felt like Yakov didn’t actually care about him as a person, rather than someone to make money from advertising or acclaim_ , Yuuri realized.

      But Viktor was shrugging. “It didn’t matter too much, though, because he let me go home to St. Petersburg. I’d been away for months; the skating season was over, so Yakov was around more to keep an eye on me. I don’t begrudge him any of it now, really. It was then that he started explaining the bratva to me, and his position within it. I was introduced to the rest of the obshchak – that’s Yakov’s division – and they collectively took me under their wings. On one hand it was frustrating, because I know that they looked at me an saw my potential as an athlete that they could manipulate for power in other sectors. On the other hand, it gave me a chance to learn the system.”

      Yuuri nodded. He spoke softly, even though he was certain no one was around to overhear and misinterpret what he was saying. “I feel the same… frustration sometimes. For me, it was initially because I wanted to be a bigger part of my ninkyō dantai; I wanted to pull my weight like anyone else would be expected to. And they saw a child in me, a child who was obsessed with reaching the same level as his world-record holding idol…”

      “Who was – _oh_.” Viktor looked startled.

      Yuuri frowned. “Why are you so surprised? You _knew_ that you were my idol.”

      “I didn’t know the extent of it.”

      “Viktor,” Yuuri sighed, “You’ve _been_ in my room. You even wore one of my Viktor Nikiforov fan shirts.”

      “One of?” Viktor repeated, his tone almost back to its regular easy teasing. It made Yuuri’s stomach explode into butterflies, in spite of the situation.

      “Don’t tease, Viktor,” he admonished, but Viktor knew full well that Yuuri wasn’t really upset. Even so, he drew himself up a little and cleared his throat.

      “There’s not too much more to my sad backstory,” he said, smiling a little heart at Yuuri. His voice had turned serious again. “I guess I’m someone of importance to the bratva now, for more than just my skating. It helped when Yakov let me back into the figure skating – and it helped that I owed him so much. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be dead in a ditch.”

      Viktor said that so flippantly, but Yuuri felt a swell of nausea at the words. It was one of the most awful notions he’d ever heard. Unaware, Viktor continued, “So I came back with a whole herd of bratva-approved sponsors and started winning again, and my value went up again. Suddenly, I could be used not only as a means of leverage – our bratva isn’t very large, but we hold power in enough places of the Kremlin – but also as someone who had intimate knowledge of even the street side of mafia and crime.

      “My most recent tattoo is the one on my shoulder you’re so fond of… it’s a piece of importance, recognizing the power I have now with the bratva, with the Kremlin, with many facets of Russia. Vor – the pakhan, the boss – is an older man, but he watched my career from my novice years. He’s known Yakov a long time, and actually has more faith in me than Yakov does… so I really do owe much of my existence to them, to my fathers and brothers in the bratva.

      “The sun in the middle of my chest represents those five years I was gone, though… I did feel trapped, I felt like it was a prison sentence, not being able to skate. Yakov wouldn’t let me back on ice until he was certain that I wouldn’t go off on a binge, and when he _did_ let me skate again, he made me quit smoking, too. I mean,” the smile widened and his eyes became a little faraway, “I did plenty of other things, besides smoke and bitch and relapse and repeat the cycle. I, ah, flew to Switzerland a few times and crashed at Christophe’s training rink. Josef never minded letting me skate there for a weekend at a time.”

      “Oh, so he told the truth, then.” _I thought he must’ve been making things up whenever he said Viktor had come to visit… of course, Chris_ was _the one who told me about Viktor cutting his hair, months before the photos surfaced._

      The smile wavered. “What did Chris tell you?”

      Yuuri shrugged. “He’d only mentioned that you came to visit once or twice. He was still in juniors when I debuted, and we kind of became friends because of you. I think he overheard my old coach talking to me about you… anyway, yeah, he mentioned when we’d see each other at competitions that you two became friends.”

      Viktor looked away, blushing. In an undertone that Yuuri could’ve misheard, he said, “We really didn’t become _friends_ until we stopped fucking…”

      Yuuri’s stomach twisted, and he felt a stab of mingled jealousy and despair. _Chris never said… no one ever knew for sure…_

      Viktor glanced up at Yuuri’s twisted face and his blush deepened, though barely visible in the one remaining candle’s light. “It was only a few times – really, a continuation of me rebelling against Yakov – I’d send him a picture of myself in Chris’ bedroom, just to get a rise out of him - something to say 'you can't control me, I'm not even in Russia right now'. I mean, Yakov never said anything outright because he’s not one to admit when he’s been played for a fool, and he _certainly_ didn’t want to reprimand me for having a friend who _wasn’t_ a petty criminal or someone I'd met at one of the underground gay bars in St. Petersburg. But it was not fair to Chris… he was someone I trusted though, someone who I knew was gay and someone who didn’t mind my experimentation. But we never talked about what was real to us until I told him I just couldn’t carry on with a clear conscience.”

      Yuuri nodded stiffly, still uncomfortably trying to process what Viktor said. It made sense in a way, and he wasn’t _mad_ – but his mind kept giving him flashes of what it must have been like, Viktor with his hair long and his two tattoos, Chris before he’d had to bleach his curly hair for it to be blond, before undercuts were back in style. It made his face hot and his head hurt. _Chris never said anything, not even that time I got drunk and told him how much_ I’d _love to be fucked by Viktor, Jesus Christ. What did he think of me then? God damnit, I’m_ never _talking to_ anyone _ever again. Fuck._

      “Yuuri?” Viktor cut into Yuuri’s thoughts, reaching for him but apparently deciding at the last moment that Yuuri may not want to be touched.

      “What?” Yuuri closed his eyes, forced himself to take a deep breath.

      “I can tell you without hesitation that I don’t have feelings for Christophe. I never have, nothing other than physical attraction, anyway – and while I won’t deny that he’s attractive to me, Yuuri, he’s not _who_ I’m attracted to. He’s not who I want to date, he’s not who I want to sleep with. Not at _all_.”

      _He’s not who I want to date, he’s not who I want to sleep with_. Yuuri slowly opened his eyes. “No?”

      Viktor shook his head so vehemently that his bangs fell over both eyes and he had to shove them back before replying, “No, he’s not. That’s _you_ , pыбка – Yuuri, I’ve never felt like this about anyone, never even told these things I’ve said tonight to anyone else. It’s you. You’re who I want. You know, if you aren’t so disgusted with me after what you’ve heard…”

 _Disgusted? Is he fucking kidding me?_ “What?”

      “I’m a self-destructive, recovering addict – and a member of a rather powerful Russian mafia. I’m selfish and stupid, and I put myself in unforgiving situations to make a point –”

      “Stop.” The candle’s flame met the melted wax pooling around the wick and flickered out.

      Viktor kept going. “I treated people who took care of me badly, I almost ruined my own life and kept going, and –”

      “Viktor, shut up or I swear to god I’ll _make_ you.”

      Viktor froze mid-word. Then, a cheeky grin crept across his face, though his eyes were tired and wary. “You’ll _make_ me?”

      Yuuri moved Makkachin’s haunch off his lap with a murmured apology to the dog before getting to his knees and leaning over the distance between him and Viktor. Steadying himself with his hands tight on Viktor’s shoulders, Yuuri frowned down at him. “Listen to me, Viktor.”

      Viktor’s grin disappeared and his eyes turned cold, cautious. “Yuuri –”

      “ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri repeated, his voice sharp. Makkachin moved the rest of the way from between them, and Yuuri knee-walked until he was flush with Viktor, straddling his knees, who rested his hands on Yuuri’s hips, albeit with some hesitation. With each breath, Yuuri could smell Viktor’s heady, unique scent of sandalwood and roses, even through the ocean air. It was as like the unique smell of home in how it comforted Yuuri, steadied his voice before it began to shake. “Viktor, I’m not _disgusted_ with you.”

      When Viktor opened his mouth like he was preparing to argue, Yuuri squeezed his shoulder tightly until he closed his mouth again. “Don’t you try to argue me into being disgusted with you, because it won’t happen. We’ve both… done things… felt things… that we regret. But Viktor, those things are still a part of you. And I _love_ you, you know?”

      Viktor’s shoulders trembled a little under Yuuri’s hands. “Oh, pыбка, how can you say that so confidently? I feel like a fraud, like I’ve deceived you and the rest of the world into thinking I’m some pristine ice prince. I’m not, I’m not at all.”

      Yuuri sighed, resigned almost to the tears building behind his own eyes. The moon was rising in the sky; they’d been on the beach for a long time, but he’d stay there all night if that’s what it took to make Viktor understand. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not asking you to be pristine. I’m not – you don’t know _my_ stories, either, but you’ve taken me as I am. So please, let me love you, even the things you’re ashamed of. Even the things you don’t love about yourself.”

      “You idolized me, and I’ve let you down.” Yuuri could hear the unspoken part of that broken statement; he knew how public Viktor had always been about his appreciation for his fans. He was thinking that he’d betrayed all of his fans, too.

      With a shaking hand, Yuuri pushed Viktor’s bangs from his eyes. “You haven’t let me down.”

      “But it doesn’t make any _sense_ , Yuuri!”

      Yuuri raised his voice to match Viktor’s tone. “My love for you doesn’t _need_ to make sense, Viktor. It’s not for someone else to judge; it’s for me to hold with my own soul. I can’t explain why, I can’t tell you my reasoning. I just _do_ , I just love you. Can’t that be enough for you?”

      Viktor wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s waist and tucked his face into Yuuri’s chest, his shoulders still trembling. Muffled against the fabric of the Bolshoi Ballet sweatshirt Yuuri wore, Viktor said, “It’s enough, it’s more than enough. It’s more than I _deserve_.”

      Yuuri found Viktor’s jaw and tilted it up so their mouths were level, and their breaths mingled. “ _No_ , my love,” he whispered, letting his eyes close. There was something uncannily familiar in Viktor’s fears; Yuuri thought back to some of the comforts Viktor had given him over the last few months. “You deserve the moon, and one day I hope you’ll see that. But for now, I’ll love you for even the times you can’t love yourself.”

      “Promise?” Viktor’s voice was a hoarse whisper that Yuuri felt spoken against his mouth as much as heard.

      Yuuri hoped that the kiss he pressed with all the intensity he could muster against Viktor’s half-parted lips sufficed as an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm editing this right as I've finished watching God's Own Country so suffice to say I'm a little wrecked!! But I do really, really hope you enjoyed this chapter/the story overall. 
> 
> TERMINOLOGY:  
> a six, or shestyorka -the lowest level member of a bratva, and usually is a kind of petty criminal errand boy or associate  
> obshchak - a group led by one of the 'two spies' working directly below the pakhan to oversee brigadiers. obshchak handles money and bribing government officials  
> pakhan - also 'vor'; the boss or 'godfather'
> 
> This chapter has been a looong time coming. It's one of my favorites but obviously the subject matter is a little sensitive! However, it's Viktor's backstory that I reference a lot in my characterization for him, so hopefully you see that.  
> I have material written kind of as a companion to this with backstory for Viktor literally going back to his infancy and answering a lot of the questions that may be raised by this chapter, but it's not complete enough to publish in one piece; in order to not skip details, then, I'm going to refrain from publishing it. If you have questions, though, please come ask them and I'll do my best to answer them!!
> 
> Next chapter is one that has a decidedly lighter tone than this one - and it includes my foray into actually writing smut so expect a bump to the work's rating!! 
> 
> I see every bit of feedback on this work, and I appreciate it so much. Like genuinely, every comment or kudos makes my day So much brighter; I can't even explain how much it means to me to be able to share this world/my writing with people. With this chapter, we're officially over the 100k threshold, making this the longest thing I've written since I wrote a novel about five years ago. So thank you for reading along and sticking with me!!! I could cry, I really could. Thank you.
> 
> ⭐️Looking for a visual of Viktor's tattoos, playlists for the characters or work as a whole, or some of my inspiration/references? I've compiled them (and am still collecting them) [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ⭐️


	15. Give My Sorrow A Plot Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All I ever needed was your matchstick, mama, to take my wrongs and make them right_   
>  _To take my darkness and make it bright_   
>  _Give your old boy's cigarette a light_   
>  _I want you, you, you to hold through the night_   
>  _I want you, you, you to see through my heart's disguise_   
>  _I want you_
> 
>  
> 
> Though still somewhat reeling from everything Viktor said on the beach, Yuuri and Viktor reach a new stage in their relationship. And later - Yuuri has a tattoo appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from uuu by Field Medic. Also I promise there's a reason behind the angst and it's part of something to pay attention to...
> 
> ❤️MIND THE RATING BUMP❤️

      They’d returned from the beach and gone straight to Viktor’s room (Yuuri overriding Viktor’s request for a bottle of wine, thinking it would be too easy for things to get out of hand) where Viktor all but melted onto the edge of the bed. He looked very pale and drawn with the overhead light on, and it made Yuuri’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Because of _course_ Viktor looked lovely, his eyes pink-ringed and his lips puffy and bruised reddish, pale so his normally faint freckles stood out starkly over his cheeks. But even more, Yuuri was concerned for Viktor. He hadn’t seen him like this before, so vulnerable and reserved. Makkachin was doing his best impersonation of a lapdog, folding his 31 kg bulk more or less on Viktor’s lap, resting his head over Viktor’s to look plaintively over at Yuuri.

      “I guess this is how you must feel when I’ve gotten weepy at competitions,” Yuuri had said with a soft chuckle. It threatened to overwhelm him, seeing Viktor so distraught – but he wasn’t going to let it. He was going to take care of him.

      Viktor blinked back at him, his bright eyes still far too watery. Still, he mustered a smile. “Are you calling me _weepy_?”

      Yuuri coaxed Makkachin off Viktor’s lap so he could settle there instead, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s neck and pressing a lingering kiss to one of his angular cheekbones. Viktor closed his eyes and leaned into Yuuri’s touch. “I’ll forgive it,” he said, and Yuuri gave a proper laugh.

      Yuuri wanted to keep things light; everything Viktor had said still hung heavy between them, and heavier still was everything Yuuri had been pondering since Moscow – everything _he’d_ been meaning to say to Viktor but hadn’t been able to muster up the nerve to. Viktor, though, caught Yuuri’s mouth under his and kissed him deeply, drawing Yuuri into him. Yuuri was weak when it came to Viktor, he always had been, and instead of _keeping things light_ , he rolled his hips down into Viktor’s and kissed him back, letting himself be caught up in Viktor’s obvious wanting. It wasn’t long before Yuuri’s hands were sliding from their hold in the hair at the back of Viktor’s head and coming down his chest, hesitating before being to unbutton Viktor’s shirt at Viktor’s sharp nod. In answer, Viktor scooted further back onto the bed and tugged at the hem of the Bolshoi Ballet sweatshirt of his that Yuuri still wore.

      Yuuri didn’t hesitate in letting go of Viktor to put his hand over his and help him pull the sweatshirt off; Yuuri’s glasses came off with the sweater, landing with it somewhere over the side of the bed where Viktor tossed the bundle. Viktor hummed appreciatively when he found Yuuri hadn’t worn a shirt beneath the sweater, and he lavished lingering, open mouthed kisses over the koi tattoo. Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat, and he let his head fall back, holding himself steady with his hands on Viktor’s freckled shoulders. When the sharp line of Viktor’s nose traveled south enough to get Yuuri’s nipple in his mouth, Yuuri gasped and moved his grip to lace his fingers into Viktor’s hair and, after the moment it took for him to get a hold on himself, pull his head up.

      “If _that’s_ what you have in mind, Viktor, I’m texting my sister to see if Makkachin can sleep with her tonight.” His voice was somewhat breathy; Yuuri was certain his cheeks were already flushed.

      “What?” Viktor, too, had a flush high on his cheekbones, and his lips were slightly parted and puffy from kisses. He’d been so despondent when they came in from the beach, but now his features were painted with want. Yuuri was going to lose his damn mind if he couldn’t do something about this – if Viktor would let him, if he would have him, though.

      He pushed Viktor’s chest, and Viktor kept his hands on Yuuri’s hips as he laid back on the bed, narrowly missing Makkachin, who was curled up on the pillows. Trying not to stare too much at Viktor, with his hair fanned around him and the flush on his cheeks spreading to color his chest, Yuuri fished his phone from the pocket of his joggers to text Mari – all while sat over Viktor’s hips. If Viktor wanted to mess with Yuuri’s nipples, he didn’t mind, but he didn’t want the _dog_ to watch – Makkachin felt too much like a part of their family, and it was awkward. Viktor was very still beneath Yuuri, watching him with half-lidded eyes.

      Mari texted back quickly with a fair amount of teasing; Yuuri dipped down to kiss Viktor before sliding off of him and calling Makkachin to him. Makkachin seemed to understand perfectly when Yuuri opened the door and told him to go find Mari, for which Yuuri was grateful. Before returning to the bed, Yuuri flipped the overhead light off – Viktor must have turned on the bedside lamp, giving the banquet-turned-bedroom a soft glow. And when he turned back to Viktor, Yuuri found him propped up on his elbows, a crease between his eyebrows.

      “Yuuri…” Viktor started, eyes drifting down to take in Yuuri’s body as he crossed back over to the bed, “Does this mean… do you want to…”

      Yuuri climbed back onto the bed before answering, kneeling next to Viktor and taking his hand, lacing their fingers together. Feeling bolder than he thought he would, Yuuri had smiled at Viktor and said, “Why don’t we just see what happens?”

      At that, Viktor smiled wider than he had all night. He opened his arms for Yuuri, who after a moment’s hesitation resumed the position he’d been in before escorting Makkachin out of the room, straddling Viktor’s hips. Viktor wasn’t quite as still under Yuuri now, but grinding his hips up almost infinitesimally with a teasing grin. Yuuri only rolled his eyes and ran his hands over Viktor’s chest, pushing Viktor back to the bed before dipping down to kiss him deeply.

      “I’m so happy you’re in a better mood, my love,” Yuuri whispered against Viktor’s mouth as they parted to breathe.

      For a moment, Viktor was still again, and his eyes took on a cold light. Just as quickly, though, he was kissing the corner of Yuuri’s mouth and saying, “It’s only because of you, pыбка.”

      Yuuri flushed and ducked his head into Viktor’s shoulder. The way his stomach swooped wasn’t just lust and longing; Yuuri was thinking, as he felt he was constantly these days, of the juxtaposition between the sweet things Viktor said and the way Yuuri was afraid it was all too much, too unsustainable. But with his lips brushing against Viktor’s skin, he said, “Every day I feel so grateful that you’ve come across half the world to be here with me, to coach me in figure skating and to hold my hand and make me feel like I’m not so alone.”

      Viktor’s arms tightened around Yuuri’s waist, pulling them even closer together. “If I had known I’d find a love like this, I would’ve come to you sooner,” he said, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s temple.

_Well, you didn’t know I existed until the triplets posted that video of me skating, though not for a lack of trying through my whole damn career_ , Yuuri wanted to say. Instead, he found Viktor’s mouth with his own again. It was never very hard to fall into a rhythm, kissing Viktor, but tonight Yuuri kept pulling away to marvel at the man beneath him, his mind swirling with all Viktor said on the beach. Viktor didn’t seem to mind; instead, he smiled up at Yuuri and smoothed his hair back, hoarsely murmuring soft things in Russian that Yuuri could only catch half the meaning of at best.

      Viktor was so lovely even in the low light – it played off the angles of his face and still caught his eyes. _He’s a work of art; he’s the most beautiful man in the world, and that flush on his cheeks is from me,_ Yuuri thought, feeling himself smile in a marveling way. Viktor must have noticed Yuuri’s distraction, because he used the pause in kissing to hold tight to Yuuri’s waist and flip them so Viktor could straddle him, now. Yuuri’s blush was renewed, feeling the contact of Viktor’s body on his all the way in his core, in the tingling in his toes and fingertips.

      When Viktor rolled his hips down, though it wasn’t a big movement, Yuuri threw his head back on the pillows and arched embarrassingly into the contact. _He knows_ exactly _what the fuck he’s doing to me… but god, this is like a dream – I’m_ certain _this is a dream_ , he thought. He opened his eyes when Viktor trailed his fingertips along the curve of Yuuri’s cheek. Though the flush on his cheeks had spread to color the dip between his collarbones, Viktor still wore a cool half-smile.

      “What?” Yuuri murmured, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness.

      Viktor smoothed the concerned wrinkles in Yuuri’s forehead before answering, “I was just wondering… did it hurt?”

      The self-consciousness became a pang of alarm, and Yuuri sat up so fast he nearly knocked Viktor over. “ _What_? Nothing hurts, what do you –”

      “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Viktor interrupted, his grin widening smugly. For a moment, Yuuri only felt relief. Then, he broke into near-hysterical giggles. Viktor’s grin wavered and a consternated crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Did I say that wrong?”

      Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s face by both hands and pulled him in for a kiss before saying, “No, baby, you said that right. You just took me off guard, that’s all.”

      Viktor’s brow was still creased, so Yuuri stretched his torso up so he could kiss it smooth again. Viktor watched him when he pulled away with eyes that looked oddly hurt.

      “ _Рыбка_ , do you think you’re _not_ angelic? That you’re not a perfect, godly specimen?”

      Yuuri wrinkled his nose. The honest answer was _yes_ , he felt like the furthest thing from God most days, and that didn’t even have anything to do with his yakuza involvement. But he didn’t want to cause Viktor any distress by saying as much, or even worse, start a silly argument. So instead of properly answering, Yuuri wriggled out from under Viktor, whose legs were on either side of Yuuri’s hips as he still sat on his lap, and carefully put his own legs on either side of Viktor. They faced each other, sitting like they were pieces of a puzzle.

      This brought Viktor’s sweet, shy smile back, even as he murmured, “Вы могли бы быть танцовщицей,”

      Yuuri only understood something in regard to dancing, and it made him bite his lip against a silly smile. After all, his lover or not, Viktor was still an idol to Yuuri, and idle praise like that made Yuuri flush with pride. His next move, though, could be the end of whatever was happening between them. Yuuri knew that, acknowledged the blooming jitters in his stomach, and looked up at Viktor through his eyelashes all the same, laced his fingers together at the nape of Viktor’s neck. He wanted to try this.

      “You took me off guard,” he said, referring to the comment Viktor had made earlier about Yuuri being angelic, “because I didn’t expect you, my living legend of an ice king, Russian mobster boyfriend to drop a cheesy pickup line on me.”

      Viktor blinked at him, and Yuuri held his breath. _Is he going to get mad that I called him a mobster or that I called him my boyfriend?_ And Viktor moved in slowly, so slowly, to kiss Yuuri’s neck like he wanted to leave a mark.  Yuuri didn’t move, but he could feel his own heartbeat in at least three distinct parts of his body.

      “Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor said, muffled as he kept his lips against Yuuri’s skin, “that’s the first time you’ve called me _yours_ ,”

      Yuuri’s heart was in his throat. He moved his hands to card his fingers through Viktor’s platinum hair, moving cautiously. “Is that okay?”

      Viktor laughed, his face still hidden, though he sounded a little choked up. “I’m just surprised, after all I told you tonight… that you’d still want me…”

      “Are you kidding?” Yuuri squawked, pulling Viktor’s face to his so their noses were just touching. “I _always_ want you. Knowing your past doesn’t change any bit of that. I’ve told you that, but I’ll tell you it again, as many times as you need to hear. I’m yours.”

      Viktor’s smile was radiant, even in the low light of the bedroom. He kissed Yuuri three times in close succession, each more lingering than the last, pulling Yuuri back flush against him. “I love you,”

      “I love you, too,” Yuuri breathed. _I love him so much I’m in agony half the time, and if we go all the way it’s going to hurt so much more when he leaves. But I can’t, I can’t, I’m not strong enough…_ He rocked back a little from Viktor though, if only to alleviate some of the stretch in his hamstrings from the position he was in. Doing so, the epaulette tattoo on Viktor’s right shoulder caught his eye, as it always did, and Yuuri traced the heavier outline of it his fingertip. Viktor shivered.

      “Did it hurt?” Yuuri asked, almost an echo of Viktor’s attempt at a pickup line.

      Viktor looked like he’d been taken off guard; he glanced down, eyebrows raised. “Well yes,” he said, “it wasn’t as bad as I was afraid it would be, but it didn’t feel _good_ –”

      Yuuri cut him off by planting a lingering kiss in the center of the epaulette, which had a snowflake design instead of a military crest. _I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t but I’m going to_. “They say a kiss can take the pain away, you’ve heard that, right?”

      Viktor’s eyes were wide when Yuuri sat back again, trailing his fingertips down now to the mirrored Cyrillic writing. _Mothers say kisses soothe fresh injuries, not old scars,_ he thought _, but perhaps Viktor won’t call me on that.._. _what will soothe the pain when the Final is over and he returns to Russia? ‘Let love in’… is it worth it?_ Swallowing his racing thoughts back, Yuuri tapped the Cyrillic tattoo and prompted, “And this one?”

      Viktor bit his lip, apparently trying to remember. _He hasn’t figured out my game yet_ … cautiously, he answered, “Yes?”

      That was rewarded with another kiss. Yuuri moved an inch or two over to the sun in the center of Viktor’s sternum. “How about this tattoo?”

      Starting to understand, Viktor’s chest was beginning to flush. He was more ready with his answer this time. “Yes, that one hurt.”

      Yuuri smiled against Viktor’s skin. He put both hands on Viktor’s sides, used them to guide Viktor into leaning back onto the bed, and used his nose to indicate the next tattoo, drawing a diagonal line to the arm of the thieves’ cross that wrapped from Viktor’s side onto his chest. Viktor drew in a sharp breath, goosebumps rising on his skin.

      “Ribcage tattoos are among the most painful,” Yuuri said, his voice having gone husky without his meaning to. He wasn’t thinking of the place where his koi tattoo dipped onto his ribs; all his focus was on Viktor, _Viktor, Viktor._

      Viktor swallowed audibly. “Yes, pыбка, that tattoo hurt, too.”

      The kiss to the thieves’ cross was slightly open-mouthed, and Yuuri felt a surge of satisfaction as Viktor shivered and pressed his body up a fraction. He steadied Viktor with the hands on his side, though his heartbeat was speeding up, too. The leaping deer was next. Yuuri rested his lips against it and hummed, and suddenly Viktor’s hands were scrabbling in his hair.

      “ _Yuuri_ ,” he hissed.

      “Viktor?” Yuuri raised his head, letting Viktor’s hands fall to rest on his shoulders; Viktor was lying flat on the bed, his legs open around Yuuri, and the flush down his chest seemed renewed. He didn’t say anything more, but nodded vehemently. Yuuri bit his lip again around a smile. There was just the tattoo of a hand holding a rose left, the one that sank down to end below the line of Viktor’s hips.

      There was a quaver of anxious anticipation in Yuuri’s voice as he let his thumbs hook under the waistband of Viktor’s Nike pants and the briefs beneath them, hands still on Viktor’s sides, and asked, “Viktor, your last tattoo, can I, ah, see it better?”

      “ _Please_ ,” was Viktor’s response, and he raised his hips so Yuuri could slide his pants down until they were just barely covering him.

      It was difficult to pull his attention back to the tattoo when there was no ignoring now that Viktor was obviously hard. The tattoo really _was_ a neat piece, not one Yuuri had seen this close before – done in a style similar to ‘American traditional’ but simple black and gray ink, it was of a feminine hand wrapped carefully around a rose and encircled in nasty-looking barbed wire. Knowing his hands were shaking where they rested on Viktor’s sides and each beat of his heart throbbing in his dick.

      Pressing one kiss to the tattoo didn’t seem like quite enough to Yuuri so he left two, each given with parted lips so he could taste the faint salt of Viktor’s skin. Viktor groaned, and Yuuri was the one to shiver, then.

      Yuuri slipped his fingers under the waistband of Viktor’s pants again, hands still shaking with something like anticipation _. To hell with restraint, to hell with heartache_. “Viktor, can I…?”

      Viktor propped himself up on one elbow to meet Yuuri’s eyes, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes looked dark instead of ice-blue. He nodded, bangs bouncing into his eyes, but stopped himself. “Wait, pыбка – only… only if you want to…”

      Yuuri moved over Viktor without thinking much of it, so he was supporting himself with his hands on either side of Viktor’s shoulders, and gave him a deep kiss. _I’ll die if you leave and I was never bold enough to do this; if I never got to show you my love in every way I can_. “I want to,”

      And Viktor was sitting up more, pushing his body flush with Yuuri’s, his hands finding a home low on Yuuri’s hips. They kissed like that for a moment, Yuuri’s heart pounding so hard in his chest its chant of _Vik-tor, Vik-tor, Vik-tor_ that he was certain Viktor himself could hear it. Together they moved in an ungainly way not fitting of professional figure skaters, they untangled their bodies and got to their knees on the bed, though each was unwilling to let go of the other. Yuuri wanted to touch Viktor everywhere; he wanted to card his fingers through his hair, he wanted to feel the muscle of Viktor’s pectorals, he wanted to trail his fingertips over the line of his spine. Moving perhaps faster than he would were he with someone else, but all the same with each movement carefully premeditated, Yuuri once again caught Viktor’s waistbands, this time shoving his pants down to his thighs. Without thinking, though, he set his hands back down on Viktor’s lower back, fingers splayed over smooth skin.

      Viktor chuckled against Yuuri, though he held his lower lip between his own and his teeth, and slipped his hands under the joggers Yuuri wore to cup his ass. “Yeah?”

      Yuuri felt like he was dreaming, much less _really_ and truly getting naked with Viktor Nikiforov. He nipped Viktor’s top lip in return, their teeth bumping together. “Yeah.”

      With what was probably a much more polished movement that Yuuri’s had been, Viktor eased the joggers and Yuuri’s boxer briefs together down his thighs. Yuuri was blushing in spite of himself, and he thought of the way he’d told Viktor not to detour to the kitchen for wine. _I’m much more sober than the last time I did anything like this… it’s okay, though, it’s okay. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone more. I want this, I want him._

      Of course, Viktor and Yuuri had seen each other naked before, but this felt entirely new – and it _was_ , really. They broke apart to slip the rest of the way out of their underwear, and that was it. Yuuri was naked in an equally naked Viktor’s arms, wearing only the respective ink coats of their criminal associations and shaking with barely-there composure. Yuuri was holding his core so tight, wanting both to fall bodily against Viktor and still afraid of being flush down their lengths. It had been almost easy to think of anything but the rock-hard desire hot and heavy between his legs when he wasn’t sure of what Viktor wanted. But now… now, Yuuri took one hand from Viktor’s cheek and followed his body with it, down his soft chest and abs, over the hand and rose tattoo, to the barely-visible blond hair that almost never saw the light of day. There, he hesitated.

      Viktor kissed Yuuri like it was a competition, and he hadn’t done anything but win hearts and world records for the majority of his career. “I love you, I love you,” he repeated against Yuuri’s lips (when his tongue was back in his own mouth, at least). Now it wasn’t Viktor bent backwards but Yuuri, supported by Viktor’s hands on his lower back and butt. It was inevitable, in a situation like that, for their dicks to bump against each other, but it still made Yuuri squirm a little. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but all of a sudden he wasn’t too content with just _touching_. And after all, with Yuuri’s track record in college, if this had just been any guy he probably would’ve had him climaxing by now. _It's just sex_ , he told himself. _Yeah, sex with Viktor fucking Nikiforov._

      So nerves aside, Yuuri bit a little harder on Viktor’s lip and took him in hand. Viktor was already leaking beads of precum, which made jacking him off that much easier, and it made Yuuri that much more aroused, knowing that it was because of him. Viktor moaned at Yuuri’s touch, and he swore under his breath in Russian. Yuuri didn’t have time to make a joke or smile too gloatingly before Viktor had him in hand, too. For a second, Yuuri didn’t think he could breathe, and he leaned against Viktor’s chest, nose in the crook of his neck even as he kept pace with his hand on Viktor’s dick. Under the smell of sweat and sex starting to fill the air, though, Viktor still smelled like sandalwood and rose bergamot, and Yuuri had the fleeting desire to taste him.

      He was going to, too, but in his ear Viktor hissed, “ _Don’t stop_ ,” and Yuuri wouldn’t dream of disobeying his coach. Even so, it was Yuuri who came first, with a strangled gasp of Viktor’s name. He leaned heavily on Viktor, who staggered a little under his sudden weight, but still did his best to keep stroking Viktor to completion. Viktor was holding on to Yuuri like he was a lifeline, and it wasn’t long either before he was coming, too, babbling what sounded like a combination of Russian swears and endearments.

      Boneless, they sank as one back onto the pillows, stuck together with sweat and semen. Yuuri’s skin felt icky, but he didn’t have the energy just then to move from under Viktor – and in truth, he’d put up with the ickiness to have Viktor in his arms for just a little longer. Ideally, they’d have lasted a little longer, but Yuuri, at least, had been waiting for this for a decade. Viktor was apparently too blissed out from coming to give Yuuri a proper kiss, because he instead kind of mouthed at Yuuri’s open mouth before dropping his head down on his chest.

      “Thank you, pыбка. I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, sounding hoarse though Yuuri didn’t think he’d heard him shout.

      Yuuri kissed every part of Viktor he could reach, each one sloppy and done with lips still buzzing from where Viktor’s had been against them. “You don’t need to thank me; I feel like I should be thanking _you_ ,”

      Viktor laughed, sounding a mixture of happy and tired. “I love you,”

      “I love you, too,” Yuuri said, shifting out from under Viktor and rolling him onto his back. “I’ll be right back.”

      Slightly lightheaded, he made his way to the bathroom annexed to Viktor’s room and ran a washcloth under warm water, wiped his sweat-and-cum smeared stomach off, rinsed it, and brought it back to Viktor. Unsurprisingly, Viktor was half-asleep – it was well past his usual bedtime, after all. Yuuri leaned over the bed to kiss Viktor sweetly before wiping him off, too, taking loving care over the tattoos on his stomach.

      When that was done, Yuuri saw no reason not to throw the towel aside and fall into bed halfway on top of him. Viktor grumbled a half-hearted protest, but opened his arms and pulled Yuuri more fully onto his chest. Normally, Yuuri was able to stay up much later, but exhaustion was taking him, too. _I don’t want to think any more, I don’t want to reprimand myself, not for something that felt so good. Not for something that I won’t regret until the end of the Final. I just want to hold him and for him to hold me._ It was definitely past midnight, though, so it was without feeling like he’d shamed his claim to being a night owl that he reached over Viktor and turned the bedside light off. Viktor was asleep almost instantly, arms comfortably tight around Yuuri.

      It was the best start to a birthday that Yuuri ever remembered having.

 

⋆

 

      Things were different between Viktor and Yuuri after that. It wasn’t a bad, tension-causing kind of difference, but it was there. Yuuri’s birthday, though he didn’t tell Viktor it was, also marked a sort of halfway point between the Rostelecom Cup and the Final in Barcelona. On one hand, Yuuri and Viktor were busier than they’d been before, training in earnest for the Final and putting together the pair exhibition at the same time. Viktor had every intention of keeping his word to Yuuri and making sure that he won gold, no matter if they were a couple now or not (Yuuri was glad of this; he thought that if Viktor had pulled some scene and told Yuuri that he had been the real gold medal to win, Yuuri would lose the composure expected of him by Yamamoto and Fukuyama). Even so, Yuuri felt like he was perpetually smiling (or flushing bright pink – or both, if Viktor had anything to do with it). It wasn’t _just_ because of the blowjobs Viktor would pull him off ice to give or the way he almost never missed a jump now, not completely. For the first time in – well, ever – Yuuri felt confident not only with his ability as a skater but also in himself as a person. He was still set on retiring after the Final – though he still hadn’t found the right time to tell Viktor – and these days, Yuuri was feeling more confident that he’d be able to end his career by winning gold for his coach.

      Sure, there were still underlying doubts – but they were definitely easier to squash down. And on the few mornings that Yuuri work with an inexplicable surge of uncertainty and found getting out of bed a monumental task, Viktor didn’t seem to mind holding him, dropping kisses onto his cheek and shoulders and whispering comforts in Russian, English, and badly accented, sometimes utterly convoluted Japanese. Over the days after Viktor had told Yuuri about his past struggles with substances and how he’d become involved in the bratva, there was a change in him, too. To Yuuri, he seemed more human, more vulnerable. More and more, he was _Viktor Nikiforov, the person_ rather than _Viktor Nikiforov, the living legend of figure skating_.

 

      About a week and a half before they were scheduled to fly to Barcelona, Yuuri asked Viktor for a day off. Viktor’s face immediately became what he thought was a suggestive smirk (which _was_ , really, but still made Yuuri fight against rolling his eyes). “Oh, yeah?”

      “Not like that.” Yuuri felt a little torn between comforting Viktor when his face immediately fell and laughing; it was an abrupt change, and quite funny.

      “Then why?” Viktor asked, sounding a little whiny. “Aren’t you serious about winning a gold medal?”

      Yuuri bit his lip. He had told Viktor a lot about his life with the ninkyō dantai, but had never properly illuminated the process of being tattooed, or who tattooed him out of respect for Nobunaga and the general respect associated with practicing irezumi. “I, ah, have an appointment,”

      Viktor raised his eyebrows. “Are you sick, pыбка?”

      “No, my love,” Yuuri said, fighting a stupid smile by kissing Viktor’s cheek. “I’ll be back tonight and I can explain more then.”

      Viktor was still making a face, though his eyes had narrowed with some sort of realization. “Does this… is this… with the…?”

      Yuuri nodded, assuming Viktor was thinking about the ninkyō dantai, and kissed his cheek again. “Yes, is that alright?”

      He shrugged. “It’s not my place to hold you back, pыбка,”

      “Thank you, baby,” Yuuri said, stretching up on his toes and throwing an arm around Viktor’s neck to kiss him properly. “I’ll be back this afternoon, probably.”

      Viktor only hummed against him and didn’t let Yuuri pull away after a single kiss, instead holding him for another, deeper kiss where he dragged his teeth over Yuuri’s lower lip. “Hurry back.”

      Yuuri walked in a roundabout way to Nobunaga’s home, hoping that if his cheeks were still pink by the time he arrived, they could be blamed on the early December weather. If they were, Nobunaga didn’t say anything; he only greeted Yuuri with his customary smile and invited him in.

      Yuuri had been playing with this idea for a few months, since he’d had the first deep talk on the beach with Viktor. _I don’t know how long Viktor will stick around, or how long my body will hold up to the stress I put on it to keep skating. So please, God, give me Viktor’s time, if only just for now_. These days, Yuuri felt more confident that Viktor would stay with him; that being said, he still felt a prickle of guilt thinking about how he was the one who had stolen Viktor away from the figure skating world. In the ninkyō dantai, irezumi tattoos told stories of the person who wore them. Viktor was a part of so much of Yuuri’s life, before they even met. Even if he were to leave Yuuri (whose stomach turned awfully at the thought), he could never take away the great impact he’d left.

      Because of Viktor, Yuuri felt like he could truly be proud of his skating ability; because of Viktor, Yuuri had been able to seduce audiences around the world. It was his love and unwavering support – even if it wasn’t always delivered in the most polished, informed matter – that helped Yuuri in turn believe in himself. It was only natural to want a tattoo to represent that. And, Yuuri had reasoned with himself, while irezumi pieces served to show stories in relation to actions within the ninkyō dantai, one could soundly argue that skating at an internationally sanctioned level was part of Yuuri’s duty. After all, it was his influence that still brought foreigners to Hasetsu, his skating that still garnered praise for all of Japan (seeing that he was still the only ISU recognized senior men’s singles skater), and what in turn generated revenue and opportunity for his ninkyō dantai.

      Nobunaga nodded, eyes intent, as Yuuri explained what he wanted to convey, deferring, though, to Nobunaga’s greater knowledge of symbolism. “Yes, Yuuri-kun, I have an idea of what we can do to show this. It will take a long time to complete, you understand this?”

      “Yes, Nobunaga-san, I understand. I am willing to put time aside for this tattoo for as many days as it takes for it to be completed.”

      Nobunaga nodded again and pursed his lips, apparently thinking. “Nukibori?”

      Yuuri twisted his lips to the side. “Yes, Nobunaga-san, I thought so. At least, until the main piece is in place. But if you feel it would be best fit with something more…”

      After what probably wasn’t too long a pause at all but still felt like something of an eternity to Yuuri, he gestured back to the room where he tattooed. Yuuri swallowed back his butterflies and bowed low over the tea Nobunaga had brought out before getting to his feet.

      Nobunaga bustled around, collecting items from cabinets that set into the decorated walls so that they were almost hidden. There was a paper mat to put over the usual tatami mat those being tattooed would sit or lay on, as well as needles, black ink, gloves, and assorted gels and cloths. For this tattoo, Yuuri would be stripping down to his boxer briefs, and those would be pushed down to expose most of his ass, at least in the beginning – this didn’t intimidate him like he thought it surely would, though he _was_ well aware of the bite Viktor had given his chest a few days before that was still a fading purple bruise. Nobunaga noticed it almost immediately, though he elected not to say anything, instead smirking knowingly.

      Fighting a smile – because Nobunaga was right, it _was_ amusing – Yuuri settled down on the paper-covered tatami, shifting only to shove his boxers down and leave his ass exposed. Nobunaga brought a plush cushion from the corner of the room to settle next to Yuuri and study his canvas. Unlike many modern tattooists, Nobunaga didn’t rely on stencils for applying designs. Years and years of experience, as well as a past as the apprentice to another irezumi tattooist in a long line of yakuza artists, meant that he had full confidence in hand drawing designs – and Yuuri had full confidence in Nobunaga.

      “Yuuri-kun,” he began, not pausing the hand that was drawing in long strokes on Yuuri’s skin, “you are not like other ninkyō dantai brothers, are you?”

      Yuuri stiffened; he had  to take a deep breath and force the tension from his shoulders. Nobunaga didn’t mean any harm with the question. “No, I suppose not, Nobunaga-san,”

      There was a pause in which Yuuri imagined Nobunaga was nodding. “Yes, I thought so, Yuuri-kun. You no doubt know, flowers have many meanings. Lotus flowers in particular are important to many members of ninkyō dantai,” Yuuri nodded and he continued, “Lotus flowers say that something strong and lovely has emerged from the mud of life.”

      Yuuri thought he knew what Nobunaga was getting at and bit his lip.

      “You, Yuuri-kun, did not begin your journey in the mud.” It wasn’t a question; they both knew that by the standards of the boys and men who ended up in yakuzas, Yuuri had a privileged childhood and still lived a plush life.

      “Yes, Nobunaga-san, I have been fortunate in life.”

      “It would not be fair, then, Yuuri-kun, to mark you with a lotus, as is often depicted in the tattoos I give.”

      “I agree, Nobunaga-san.”

      “For a pairing with a feminine tattoo like yours, Yuuri-kun, flowers are often used,” he said in his measured, unhurried voice.

      Yuuri interrupted, forgetting his place with a spark of inspiration. “Cherry blossoms.”

      “What?”

      “When Viktor arrived, Nobunaga-san, it was in the spring when the cherry blossoms were blooming. That particular day, though, it had snowed, and the cherry tree outside my window was heavy with snow. In spite of it, Nobunaga-san, the blossoms held tight and survived the frost.”

      Nobunaga hummed, thinking. “In truth, sakura are the most common accompaniment to a tattoo like this, Yuuri-kun, representing how beautiful and fleeting life is.”

      Yuuri smiled into the arm his face was resting on. _Beautiful and fleeting… that’s what these eight months with him have been._ It all seemed meant to be.

 

      They only took breaks throughout the day for Nobunaga to insist Yuuri drink water (“You must hydrate your muscles, Yuuri-kun, so they do not release bad toxins into your blood. This is very important, Yuuri-kun,”) or for Nobunaga to eat. Yuuri had no appetite. He hadn’t sat this long for a tattoo in going on six years, since before he left Hasetsu for America. The pain at first was tolerable if nor easily ignored, but the longer Yuuri lay still on the mat, the more an ache was building in his back. With a pang of mixed regret and some trepidation, he realized that there was a large chance that he would be unable to practice the next day. He’d no doubt be sorer in the morning, when bruising and scabs would start to form over the hand-poked tattoo. _I hope Viktor will forgive me if I miss another day… fuck, I really hope he likes this piece. I can’t exactly undo it, can I?_

The discomfort Yuuri felt, though, was dwarfed by the way his thoughts were tumbling endlessly around his mind. _We’re only a week away from the Final, which means I’ve only got Viktor’s time until then. I can’t hold him away from what he loves anymore… I’ve already taken so much, not just from him and his time, but from the world – I’ve been so selfish to keep him all to myself. But at least when our last competition together is over, I’ll have this, these cherry blossoms that will forever remind me of the day my dream came true._

 

      Yuuri walked back home, just barely warm enough in Viktor’s Bolshoi Ballet sweatshirt under his jacket, feeling like he’d bodily hit the ice after a pair throw jump. _The first thing I do after I kiss Viktor hello is going straight to the medicine cabinet for a handful of anti-inflammatories_ , he thought with a groan. This had only been sujibori; Yuuri was loath to think of how having the back piece filled in would feel. _But_ , he mentally amended as Yu-topia came into view, _I’ll be proud to wear it, no matter the pain it takes for this tattoo to be completed. Men weaker than I have sat for longer hours_.

      Minako was sitting with Viktor in the main room of the inn, the two of them evidently already halfway through a bottle of wine even though it was only a little past five. They didn’t notice Yuuri come in, and kept conversing in flowing French. For a moment Yuuri was confused, but he remembered belatedly that Minako had danced all around the world, and with a classical training as a ballerina she was fluent in French. It made him smile a little, as sore and tired as he was, to hear her and Viktor speak so animatedly in a language that no one else there spoke.

      “Hi, Yuuri!” she chirped when they finally realized Yuuri was there, about a meter away from the table. She deserved a better greeting, but Yuuri only gave her a ‘hhhhmmmmf’ sound and grabbed the bottle of wine from the table as he walked past, not slowing on his way to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

      By the time he’d shaken one too many pills into his hand and swallowed them with a generous swig of the wine, Viktor had joined him in the kitchen. “Hi, pыбка, how did today go?”

_Oh, fuck, I skipped step one_ , Yuuri thought, and took another swig from the bottle.

      “Yuuri?” there was a discernable degree of concern in Viktor’s voice, but when he reached out to wrap an arm around Yuuri’s waist, Yuuri batted him away, thinking only of how he thought he could feel each line of his new tattoo throbbing. The hurt on Viktor’s face felt like a slap. Yuuri started to apologize, but Viktor was looking away from his face, to the bottle of wine and the bottle of painkillers Yuuri had left on the counter. His eyes narrowed into slits of aquamarine. Yuuri braced himself for anger, but instead Viktor was stepping almost chest-to-chest with him and taking the wine and setting it on the counter, slipping his hand into Yuuri’s hand instead.

      “Are you alright, my love? Did something happen?”

      Yuuri almost laughed. He put Viktor’s hand on his neck – where there was no threat of him accidentally grabbing the tattoo – and stretched up to kiss him. “Yes, baby, I’m sorry I didn’t say hello. And I’m sorry I just made a b-line for the medicine cabinet; that was insensitive.”

      A crease appeared between Viktor’s neat silvery-blond eyebrows. “Рыбка, if you are hurting, you’re allowed to do something about it, I’m not going to relapse because my boyfriend took some paracetamol. But please, are you injured?”

      “Oh! No, Viktor, I should have been more clear,” Yuuri said, feeling chagrinned as he reached out to smooth his thumb over the concerned lines on Viktor’s face, “I didn’t tell you this morning out of respect for my artist, but I’ve been being tattooed all day.”

      Viktor’s face went from its momentary calm back to a frown. “Tattooed? All day?”

      Yuuri bit his lip. “It’s a large piece, one I’ve been talking about with my artist about for a while.”

      “Where?” Viktor asked, and Yuuri had a feeling he was thinking of the pictures of the yakuza members at things like the Sanja Matsuri Festival, where they could display all kinds of tattoos. “Can I see it?”

      “My back.” Yuuri said tersely, thinking of the time Nobunaga had spent wrapping the tattoo with padding and ointments. “Can I show you in the morning? It’s wrapped while it leaks any ink and blood…” Viktor flinched, and Yuuri was almost laughing again, exhausted and ridiculously amused by the notion that his bratva boyfriend was squeamish about blood.

      “Don’t worry, baby, I’m sore but I highly doubt it’s all that much of a mess.” He stretched up for another kiss, which Viktor returned only belatedly, obviously still concerned. With a degree of irritation, Yuuri added, “You can kiss me back, you know, he didn’t tattoo my mouth. _Or_ my waist – well, this side here.”

      Viktor thankfully smiled at that and obligingly put his hand on where Yuuri indicated on his waist and kissed him properly. They could theoretically stay there for a while, for as long as Yuuri’s aching back let them, anyway, but from the dining room Minako loudly cleared her throat.

      “Are you guys going to bring my wine back or do I have to wait for you to fuck first?”

      Yuuri gasped and Viktor snorted, dropping his forehead to Yuuri’s shoulder. Still chuckling, they walked arm-in-arm back to join Minako, who was watching them with a look of fond exasperation. Yuuri could ignore the twinges in his back to sit a little longer and share the laughter of those he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was something new. I hope it was alright, I've never published smut and rarely write it so that's something I've been nervous about. I think I know these characters, though, so staying true to how I think something like that would go down while looking at their mob affiliations and their pasts was something I focused a lot on. What about Minako and Viktor bonding?? I have lots of obscure ideas when it comes to Minako's connection to Viktor (and by proxy, Lilia... or is it the other way around ;) )  
> And for those of you who have been looking for more about Yuuri's ink - this is for you! I went full and in depth about his koi tattoo and the new tattoo on his back on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/yuuri-ink), complete with my drawings. Hopefully that will answer any questions! If you haven't already, you can read more about Viktor's tattoos [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/vik-ink).
> 
> I'm sorry I was MIA for 2 weeks! I really wanted to get Viktor's backstory completed and published before proceeding with this story, and though it's not complete, you can read a big chunk of it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952744) :)
> 
> I know this was a longish chapter, but it's actually the shortest of the next few that I have written. I'm hoping to share 16 with you next week - we'll be traveling to Barcelona for the Final!✨
> 
> As always, I rely heavily on feedback to help push me on as I write, and every kudos and comment is something I see and am so grateful for. Getting to share this story is something I feel very lucky to do, and it means the world to know that it impacts other people, even in a small way. So thank you thank you thank you !!!


	16. Life and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Prix has arrived - it's off to Barcelona for Yuuri and Viktor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did y'all order some domesticity with a side of slight angst? 'cause that's what i've got here... also some Christophe interaction, as well as a peek at the other Grand Prix skaters from afar. The gang's all here!!!

      The flight from Fukuoka to Barcelona was shorter than the one to Moscow. Even so, Viktor and Yuuri would be leaving several days early to arrive for the Final. With what he’d learned so far of Yuuri’s anxiety and how to best stave it off, Viktor wanted to get Yuuri settled in before the excitement and pressure of the competition caught up with him.

      The final week of training before their departure had gone by quickly. First, Yuuri had decided to get that tattoo – Viktor didn’t mind, not really (well, he was a _little_ annoyed that he hadn’t been consulted, but after all, Yuuri being his boyfriend didn’t change the fact that Yuuri could make decisions for himself), but it meant that Yuuri missed two days of training. Well, one and a half – the second day that Viktor had told Yuuri to take off to rest had ended with Yuuri slipping out of Yu-topia to head over to Minako’s studio, where he ended up dancing for hours. Viktor, truly, wasn’t upset at all by this. Every time Yuuri stubbornly disobeyed or argued with Viktor over silly things like the number of quad jumps or time to rest, Viktor felt a flare of affection in his chest for him. There was so much more to Yuuri, so much more than what the public saw – even if part of that was bullheaded and snarky.

      The other factor that made the week seem like a day was how excited Viktor was. As a skater, he’d always enjoyed the Grand Prix series, but this was more than that. He loved – absolutely _loved_ like he’d loved few things before – watching Yuuri skate. And it wasn’t just because Yuuri was the love of Viktor’s life; as a skater, Yuuri possessed stamina Viktor had seldom seen in anyone else, and he moved like he was a part of music. Maybe Chris was more sexual, maybe Yuri was more tenacious when it came to his programs, maybe JJ had more of a personality on the ice (though perhaps _too_ much) – but Yuuri would always be the one to draw Viktor’s eye.

      And sure, Viktor was apprehensive – who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t that Viktor wasn’t confident in Yuuri’s ability to win, though. All these months, he and Yuuri hadn’t bothered to talk about the future, instead focusing on the Grand Prix Final alone. They’d barely even spoken about their past (though Viktor had still told Yuuri more than he’d ever told anyone else). Hanging over both their heads, as much or more than skating, almost, were their respective associations. Viktor had crossed a line leaving Russia, or Yakov had told him so – but that had been in the spring and this was winter, now, and he didn’t know where he stood with his bratva. Sure, he talked to his brigadier friends and he’d had more than a handful of lengthy check-ins with members of Yakov’s obshchak to ensure that he was still safe, but he didn’t know how much longer they’d tolerate him shirking his responsibilities to coach Yuuri in Japan.

      But all the same, he was confident in his actions, bringing them closer to the Final, because everything he was doing was for Yuuri – Viktor’s own wellbeing was, at best, an afterthought in favor of Yuuri. Yuuri, who never ceased to surprise him. Yuuri, who Viktor was quite certain he’d follow across the world forever. Yuuri, who filled his mind at almost every waking moment.

 

      Yuuri’s new tattoo had gone from being like a massive bruise to being intensely itchy. There was one point during the second-to-last practice before leaving for Barcelona that Yuuri dropped to the ice and simply laid on his back, letting the ice make him temporarily numb. Viktor was already agitated from the difficulty he was having with his costume designer in St. Petersburg – whom he had commissioned to do a rush-job on making a Stammi Vicino outfit for Yuuri, though she’d never seen Yuuri in person and was relying only on the measurements Viktor gave her – and he put a quick end to his student lying on the ice instead of practicing step sequences. When Viktor sighed and turned back to his phone, Yuuri couldn’t resist sticking his tongue out at him, just because it felt like the kind of childish thing he’d never dared to do around any other coach (sure, he blushed right after - but it's the thought that counts).

      Thankfully, by the time they were walking back from the rink at sunset with the seaside breeze having buffeted them both pink-cheeked and wild-haired, Viktor’s agitation had turned into apologetic clinginess. This would've annoyed Yuuri to no end, had Viktor been someone else. As it was, he reveled in the attention Viktor was giving him.

      “Oh, my love, my pыбка, I was so inattentive today, how unfair of me,” Viktor despaired with just a touch too much drama. Yuuri pursed his lips so he wouldn’t laugh, opting instead to reach out and hook his first two fingers around Viktor’s pinkie finger.

      “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Viktor,”

      Viktor heaved a sigh, looking up at the sunset as if he was seeking the forgiveness of a sky goddess. “How can I make it up to you?”

      Yuuri wanted to tease Viktor about the way he was always trying to make things even (or worse, trying to berate himself and instead skew things so Yuuri was praised more or given more). Viktor had the start of a good pout on his face, though, and Yuuri thought it would be wise to avoid getting them both worked up so close to the Final. Since Viktor had told Yuuri about his past, his strange proclivities and the stranger things he insisted on, usually out of some kind of unexplained and badly handled guilt that he carried, were easier to understand. It wasn’t always easy for Yuuri to lie down and let Viktor pay attention to him though. Even so, instead of teasing Viktor and exacerbating his mood, Yuuri slipped his hold on Viktor’s pinkie finger to hold his gloved hand properly, and when Viktor looked over at him he smiled.

      “How about you help me get some kind of lotion on my back? This tattoo’s itching like crazy.” That was the sort of innocuous thing Yuuri loved to request from Viktor – nothing big, so it didn’t feel like he was being uncomfortably spoiled, but enough that it seemed to placate some of the guilt Viktor inexplicably carried.

      Whatever Viktor had been expecting, that probably wasn’t it – but even so, he smiled and squeezed Yuuri’s hand. “I’d love to, pыбка,”

 

      After dinner, Viktor, Yuuri, and Makkachin trouped upstairs to Viktor’s room. Yuuri wasted no time in shucking off his top layer of clothing – he had been wearing Viktor’s Bolshoi Ballet sweatshirt again, something that made Viktor feel warm all over when he noticed – and flopping down on the bed. Makkachin jumped up and laid by Yuuri’s head, resting his own head on Yuuri’s arm. Viktor’s heart felt like it was in danger of busting out of his chest, like the Grinch in the old American Christmas cartoon. He took a quick picture (how was it that even at a skater’s competitive weight, Katsuki Yuuri still had a soft, _perfect_ peach-shaped ass?) of his dog and his boyfriend to join the folder of other candids on his phone. At this point, there were enough to have a different phone wallpaper for every day, but Viktor still felt the need to take more, to document more. _Have I ever been this happy? Have I ever wanted to cling to life like this before?_

      Yuuri propped himself up on one arm to better twist over one shoulder and raise an eyebrow at Viktor. “Are you coming?” he asked, voice colored with amusement.

      Viktor rolled his eyes in an exaggerated way like he’d seen Yuuri (and Yuri) do countless times, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Sorry, единственная и неповторимая, I was enjoying the view,”

      Yuuri gave a good belly sigh and reached out to ruffle Makkachin’s curly coat. “Can you _believe_ him, Makka-Makkachin?”

      Makkachin raised his head to look over Yuuri at Viktor and woofed softly, almost in a patronizing way that made Yuuri burst into giggles. Viktor’s heart gave another squeeze. He kept his voice steady as he crossed the rest of the way to the bed. “ _I_ can’t believe _you’re_ trying to turn my own dog against me.”

      “So does that mean you’re not going to help me out of my shirt?” Yuuri asked, mock-perplexion knitting his eyebrows together.

      Viktor bit back a swear and ran a hand over his face. _It’s not even fair that he can say things like that with such a straight face; it should be_ illegal, _I swear. He’s too much, too much for me_ , Viktor thought as he clambered onto the bed with less than the grace befitting of figure skating’s living legend. Yuuri gave Viktor a smile with just a bit of a teasing edge to it, and before they kissed Viktor thought, _I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone else._

      There wasn’t much point in going too slowly, so Viktor didn’t waste much time in finding the hem of Yuuri’s shirt and slipping it up his torso. Yuuri laughed against Viktor’s mouth, forever ticklish around his waist. Of course, Viktor wasn’t much better when Yuuri slipped his hands under Viktor’s shirt to move his hands over his bare skin.

      When Yuuri broke away, smiling so his eyes were crinkled at the corners, Viktor pulled his shirt off in one motion, chucking it to the side before ducking his head to press a smattering of kisses across Yuuri’s chest. When he glanced up at Yuuri, he was blushing, but there was obvious fondness in his eyes.

      “You’re ridiculous, Viktor,” Yuuri said, squeezing his shoulders. Viktor smiled and kissed Yuuri’s skin again, right on the dorsal fin of the koi tattoo.  Yuuri moved his hands from Viktor’s shoulders to his hair to tug a little. “Viktor,” he repeated, drawing his name into something of a moan.

      Without thinking, Viktor corrected him, “ _Vitya_.” It was the name his friends called him; if Yuuri was Russian, too, it would seem to him awkward to have a relationship with someone and address them with the proper form. Viktor had been thinking for a while, really since the end of November, that it was high time he was ‘Vitya’ to Yuuri. Wasn’t it?

      Yuuri had frozen, his grip in Viktor’s hair limp and his eyes wide. He repeated, “Vitya?”

      Just the repetition of this nickname sent a flush of warmth through Viktor. He smiled and put his hands on Yuuri’s cheeks even as Yuuri did the same to Viktor. “Yes, pыбка?”

      Yuuri smoothed down a lock of Viktor’s hair, not quite meeting his eyes. “That’s what you want me to call you?”

      Viktor could almost feel the uncertain caution rolling off of Yuuri; he pulled him close to kiss his forehead. “Only if _you’d_ like to. It’s a more familiar form, one of the diminutives of my name. I’ve been thinking you could call me by it for a while,”

      There was a smile teasing at the corners of Yuuri’s lips again, and he pursed them for a second before saying, “So a _student_ would call you ‘Viktor’, but your _boyfriend_ can call you ‘Vitya’?”

      Viktor blinked at that before the joke hit and he pulled Yuuri back to kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Are you trying to fluster me, Katsuki?” he teased back.

      Yuuri laughed and arched his back to press firmly against Viktor’s chest. “No, _Vitya_ ,”

      In truth, Viktor loved when they kissed like this, smiling and laughing in a way that made them just a bit uncoordinated so their teeth might bump and lips might land just that much off-center. But when Viktor started lowering Yuuri back down onto the bed, Yuuri pushed him away. Viktor was taken aback a little by the sudden pointedness of Yuuri’s gaze.

      “Pыбка?”

      “Are you trying to get out of giving me a back rub?” Yuuri asked. As the comprehension dawned on Viktor’s face, Yuuri dissolved into giggles, his cheeks flushed a sweet pink. He slipped the rest of the way from Viktor’s arms and started to get off the bed, all while Viktor was battling feeling impressed at how coy Yuuri was and irritated that it had slipped his mind. Shaking his head, he followed Yuuri a little numbly to the bathroom adjacent to the room.

      “I’m brushing my teeth,” Yuuri explained, reaching out to ruffle Viktor’s hair like he was Makkachin. “It’s getting late and you’ll probably fall asleep soon, anyway, Vitya, so maybe you should, too.”

      Viktor rolled his eyes, but Yuuri was right, of course. _And if he called me ‘Vitya’ and batted those eyelashes a little he could probably convince me to shave Makkachin_ , Viktor thought as he joined Yuuri by the sink to first begin the process of removing the day’s makeup. In truth, if Viktor fell asleep in his makeup (again), his face would probably break out – and knowing Yuuri, he had that in mind, too. _How did I get so lucky to have someone looking after me like him?_

      Really, it was probably ridiculous to be so besotted with someone after knowing them properly for less than a year, but Viktor thought better than to dwell. And anyway, it wasn’t long before Yuuri was grabbing Viktor by the hand and snagging a jar of cocoa butter from the corner of the sink and leading the way back to the bed. Viktor was caught up easily in watching the way the new tattoo on Yuuri’s back moved over his muscles when Yuuri first set the jar of lotion on the bed next to Makkachin and kissed the dog’s nose before slipping out of his joggers, leaving him only in burgundy boxer briefs.

      When Yuuri looked over his shoulder at Viktor, he saw him swallowing hard and staring right at his ass. “Uh… Vitya?”

      Viktor shook his head like a dog shaking off water and cleared his throat. “Right, sorry, I’m coming,”

      Yuuri only laughed and climbed onto the bed, stretching to turn on the bedside lamp before settling down on his stomach where he’d originally been after dinner. Viktor drank in the sight of him, all skin and ink so stark against the sheets of the bed. He flipped the overhead light off before settling on the bed next to Yuuri, putting a hand on Yuuri’s lower back so he’d know where he was and scratching Makkachin behind the ears with the other.

      “Thank you for doing this,” Yuuri said, muffled by the pillows and the arm his face was resting on. “The times I had the koi tattooed, I could deal with it myself because, you know, I could see it easily. But this one… you’re sure you still like it?”

      Viktor moved his hand a little lower to pat Yuuri’s butt. “Yes, pыбка, I really do,” he assured him.

      Apparently satisfied, Yuuri started relaying the latest skating gossip to Viktor (that he had no doubt learned from Phichit), unaware of the scrutiny Viktor was giving the tattoo, and the memory of when he’d first seen it.

      At first, the tattoo was something of a shock – not just because Viktor hadn’t realized Yuuri was getting tattooed again, but because the tattoo itself was of a massive snake. He’d told Yuuri as much, to which Yuuri had given a small frown. He had flushed a little and didn’t quite meet Viktor’s eye when he explained, “White snakes represent a lot of things, not only in the ninkyō dantai but in Japanese mythology in general. They are a symbol of divine femininity – though sometimes they represent masculine women, and they bring good fortune. Because snakes shed their skin, they have also been seen as a symbol of immortality. I thought it was interesting that they are a symbol of masculine women and I personally try to look to my feminine traits when I perform… and the branch the snake is wrapped around is of a cherry blossom tree. Spring blossoms represent beauty, as well as the fleeting nature of life. It’s what figure skating is to me – not to mention, the day you arrived, Viktor, it was April and the sakura were blooming. We had a late season snow, though, and I thought the blossoms would die, but in spite of the cold, they persevered. So in that way, I asked for the sakura to represent you, and the impact you’ve had in my life.”

      And hearing all that, there was no way Viktor could dislike the tattoo.

      Even now, Viktor sat beside Yuuri on the bed and traced the dark lines of the tattoo with his fingertips. It was a large piece, with the topmost cherry blossoms and the open mouth of the snake ending over the top of Yuuri’s shoulder blade, close to where the rest of the hikae koi wrapped around the top of his shoulder. Part of the snake was flush with the wave that held the koi on Yuuri’s side, and part of it wrapped just onto the front of Yuuri’s torso. All of it was coiled, wrapped protectively around the cherry tree branch, with the tip of the snake’s tail reaching almost the middle of Yuuri’s left buttock. In all, the tattoo was sat more to the left of Yuuri’s back, leaving just enough space to allow something tattooed on the right of his chest to wrap around like a proper suit of tattoos. It was no wonder to Viktor anymore why Yuuri had been so sore; it was a truly impressive piece, and would be even more so when color was added.

      Yuuri was squirming a little under Viktor’s touch. “This thing is fucking _itchy_ ,” he muttered, pausing from his retelling of Leo de la Iglesia’s escapades at a political protest in America.

      Viktor gasped in mock outrage. “Yuuri, don’t swear in front of Makkachin!”

      Makkachin raised his head appraisingly before getting to his feet and moving closer to both Yuuri and Viktor, looking around expectantly for a treat. Instead of making a quip back to Viktor like he was probably dying to, Yuuri stretched out again to reach the bedside table and fish around in the drawer for a dog treat (after the steamed bun incident, they were all trying harder to keep actual dog treats around, instead of feeding the old poodle from their plates like they all were wont to do).

      After passing the treat from Yuuri to Makkachin, though, Viktor opened the jar of cocoa butter to begin applying it to Yuuri’s back. Yuuri sighed appreciatively and settled back onto the bed, leaving Viktor to silently marvel over the feel of Yuuri’s skin and the muscles under beneath his hand. Just this casual touch made Viktor feel so infinitely lucky. And that combined with the late hour and how relaxing it was to smooth the lotion into the dry skin of Yuuri’s tattoo and then begin working out knots in his back muscles made Viktor feel especially affectionate. He put a leg over Yuuri’s hips to straddle him briefly before slumping forward to lay on top of Yuuri’s back. Yuuri, to his credit, didn’t seem too surprised.

      “Alright, Vitya?”

      Viktor hummed his response into the nape of Yuuri’s neck. “I love you,”

      Yuuri chuckled, and the movement of that was something Viktor felt in his whole body. “I love you, too, darling Vitya.”

 

⋆

 

      They arrived in Barcelona on December ninth, just at sunset. This close to the competition, Yuuri was a bundle of nerves and Viktor was full of boundless excitement. He hadn’t shut up for the last few hours, going through the list of competitors and evaluating them and their programs, or at least what he’d seen of them.

      Christophe was a favorite for the gold, having been on the podium with Viktor countless times over the last decade, though he’d often said that he needed Viktor competing to make him serious; the loud Canadian was also a big contender, with ambitious programs that mirrored his over-the-top personality; Yuri, naturally, was an impressive skater, though his youth and inexperience were a potential handicap; second-youngest competitor was Otabek Altin, who had been on the podium with Viktor and Chris at World’s in the spring – he was still up and coming, but incredibly talented for someone so young; Phichit probably wouldn’t make the podium with inconsistencies in his performances, though nonetheless he was breaking boundaries for all southeast Asians with what he’d accomplished; and at the end, there was Yuuri, who had just-squeezed into the Final on a technicality, something that incensed Viktor if he thought too much about it, because in his mind Yuuri should be dominating the competition.

      From what Yuuri saw in the lobby as they checked into the hotel, Viktor’s interpretations of the skaters were pretty on-point. JJ Leroy and his fiancé were wandering around in front of reporters when Viktor and Yuuri came in, Yakov and his skaters behind them. Yakov and Yuri seemed to get into some sort of argument just as Yuri’s rabid fangroup caught sight of him; when Yuri started to swear in what Yuuri thought was probably surprise, Lilia loudly reprimanded him. Yuuri watched Lilia join Yakov at the front desk (where Viktor was checking in for himself and Yuuri), and Yuri resigned himself to being pulled into the group of squealing girls to take pictures. Yuuri hadn’t been noticed, not yet, and he wandered a little closer to keep an eye on Yuri.

      Despite his grumbling, Yuri didn’t seem to mind the attention he was getting very much – that is, until JJ’s fiancée made a comment to JJ about the ‘JJ Girls’ being better behaved fans, as well as more attractive. _Goddamnit, do any of them have mouth-filters?_ Yuuri wondered, watching Yuri flush the same color pink as the cat-ears that one of the girls had put on him. Instantly, Yuri was on the defense, shouting that JJ had bad taste, among other things, and demanding an apology. Thankfully for Yuri, half of his tirade was in Russian – he’d no doubt be chewed out by Lilia when she saw the footage of her protégé starting a fight, but at the moment, there weren’t many people in the lobby who understood what was being said. Yuuri was getting ready to step in and drag Yuri away from JJ before things got physical when JJ, apparently amused by the whole thing, saw someone else and beckoned them over. It was the skater being hailed as the competition’s ‘dark horse’, Otabek Altin.

      “Beks!” JJ called, waving. Yuuri was reminded that Otabek had trained in Canada for a few off-seasons; it made sense that he and JJ knew each other, though how two people with such different personalities could be friends, he was unsure.

      Otabek came over, raising his sunglasses off his nose and arching a dark eyebrow. “Yeah?”

      Yuuri couldn’t hear his soft voice, could only read his lips from where he stood, still unnoticed. JJ didn’t seem bothered by the other skater’s aloof attitude; instead, he threw an arm around his shoulders and asked loudly, “Where are you off to?”

      Otabek ducked out from under JJ’s arm. “Going to eat.”

      JJ smiled and glanced indulgently at his fiancée before saying, “ _Alone_? I see you’re still an odd one, then. Do you want to join me and Isabella?”

      Otabek actually waved JJ away with his hand. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

      Apparently his gaze found Yuri’s then, because Yuri physically jumped and was then shouting over the sound of the busy lobby, “What do you want, мудак?”

      The Kazakhstani skater held Yuri’s eyes for a moment, and it was only a testament to the duolingo app Yuuri had been using feverishly in the last couple months that he understood when Otabek said to Yuri, “Ничего,” and disappeared through the hotel doors.

      Yuuri jumped violently a moment later when someone slipped their arm around his waist, but Viktor chuckled and said softly in his ear, “Come on, pыбка, let’s get settled.”

      They made it up to their room on one of the top floors of the hotel without too much interruption. _You can’t be Viktor Nikiforov and go unnoticed_ , Yuuri conceded, and he was glad for the fact that no one really wanted to ask him about the impending Final so much as they wanted to know what products Viktor wore in his hair, the designer of his neatly tailored trench coat, and when, oh when, he would return to skating. Viktor smiled politely and brushed the reporters away with the practiced poise of someone who had been doing this for two decades. His grip on Yuuri’s hand didn’t falter, even though Yuuri could see Viktor’s jaw tightening incrementally.

      Their room was smallish but blissfully quiet. There were two beds – after all, in the eyes of the ISU and anyone who watched skating, there was really nothing besides the kiss at the Cup of China to say Viktor and Yuuri were more than coach and student – but those were already close together; it didn’t take too much to rearrange the sheets and push the bedframes that much closer. The bathroom wall was glass, which was off-putting to say the least, but could apparently be made opaque by flipping a switch. Viktor flitted around the hotel room hanging garment bags and setting out toiletries, opening the drapes to the window overlooking the city, walking on the balls of his feet and still full of energy. Yuuri sat heavily on one of the beds and watched him, feeling more weighted with every passing minute.

      Viktor didn’t seem to notice. Sure, he would squeeze Yuuri’s hand or drop a kiss to the top of his head every time he passed where Yuuri sat, but he was too caught up in his own excitement to catch Yuuri’s reservations. But once everything was set up just-so, Viktor finally saw Yuuri’s downturned face.

      “Alright, my love?”

      Yuuri looked up sharply, his glasses having slipped low on his nose in a way that had him seeing double of Viktor. He didn’t fix them. “Yes.”

      Viktor pursed his lips and walked slowly over to his boyfriend. When he stood in front of him, one hand on his hip, Viktor repeated the question with more emphasis. Yuuri looked away.

      “I’m okay, Vitya. Just tired – jetlagged, I think.”

      Viktor nodded slowly, his face unchanged. But he said, “Oh, that’s understandable. Do you… do you want to take a nap, then?”

      Yuuri fished his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It was only a little after six, but Barcelona was seven hours behind Hasetsu – it was the equivalent of being one in the morning, which made Viktor’s excess energy that much more surprising. But with that in mind, Yuuri set his phone aside and looked back up at Viktor, saying, “I might close my eyes. You don’t have to stay with me, though, if you want to meet up with anyone…”

      “I don’t want to leave you –”

      “Vitya,” Yuuri interrupted with a flare of anxiety-induced irritation, “you won’t hurt my feelings if you want to see your friends. Really, I know you’d rather be social than cooped up with your mope – I mean, _sleepy_ boyfriend.”

      Viktor started to frown, but he knew better than to argue with Katsuki Yuuri when he got into a mood. So instead he put a cool hand under Yuuri’s chin to tilt his head up and leaned down to kiss him, deep enough that Yuuri started to reflexively pull Viktor down onto him. At that, though, Viktor pulled away.

      “ _Later_ , pыбка, yeah?”

      Yuuri laughed in spite of his mood. Viktor sure knew how to charm a smile out of him. “Okay, baby, I’ll hold you to that.” (He wouldn’t, but Viktor wasn’t going to argue; they were still going to sleep wrapped in each other at the end of the day.)

      And so Viktor went about dropping trou and digging around in the suitcases he’d brought for a change of clothes and Yuuri stripped out of the shirt he’d been wearing since leaving Hasetsu, kicked off his shoes and socks, and slipped under the covers of the bed he was already on, only watching Viktor through half-closed eyes.

      Before he left the room, though, Viktor wandered back over to the bed to pepper Yuuri’s cheeks with kisses. “I’ll be back when you wake up from your nap, pыбка,”

      Yuuri batted him away, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Wow, Makkachin, I thought we left you with my parents in Japan,”

      Viktor reached down to poke at Yuuri’s ticklish waist under the covers and jumped out of dodge before Yuuri could get him in retaliation. “You’re an ass and I love you very much.”

      “I love you, too. Now get out of here.”

 

      Viktor wound up at the hotel pool. Being ten or eleven degrees Centigrade outside, the pool was deserted, so he had no problem with stripping to the swim trunks he’d brought along and jumping in. It was cold in the water, but as long as his wet skin was submerged and not exposed in the night air, he wasn’t too bothered by it. Swimming had been one of the recommended exercises for him after he’d broken his hip a decade earlier, but he had never really bothered with it. Even so, it was nice to float along in the pool, which was lit by underwater lights so it was like one large aquamarine neon light, and simply let his mind wander.

      Mostly, Viktor thought of Yuuri. He thought of how much Yuuri had changed in the eight months since Viktor had gone to Hasetsu, how much more confident in himself he was and how as a result his skating prowess had flourished. More than just Yuuri’s skating, Viktor thought about the way he wrinkled his nose when he was trying to suppress a laugh, or the way he baby-talked to Makkachin in Japanese when he thought Viktor wasn’t watching. Viktor thought of how much happier he’d been these last eight months, how much clearer his future seemed now that he had Yuuri in front of him. _I’ve spent the last twenty years focusing on skating – and that only got worse after Mama died, but even that was when I was fourteen and here I am, two weeks from turning twenty-seven._

_I’ve been reckless with my own life because I haven’t seen any outcome that I’m content with; it’s been like I’m stuck in the most lovely dream with my skating, but it’s been a nightmare because there’s not an end that makes me feel remotely happy. So I haven’t thought about my life because it’s easier not to. But Yuuri makes me want to plan my future; he makes me want one at all. I love him like I haven’t loved anyone ever before… I never used to think about love, either, and he changed that for me, too. Life and love – that’s what Yuuri has brought me._

      Viktor thought about the abstract picture he had in his mind from what he knew of Yuuri’s yakuza involvement, and how in spite of it he was still so mild-tempered and honest, so empathetic and understanding. _Maybe that’s what makes him good at doing whatever they use him for – maybe that’s why he’s thought of so highly by all those old men who hang around Yu-topia. I wonder how they’d feel if they knew I want to whisk him away and marry him, and keep him all for myself. I wonder if they’d let him make that choice… I wonder if he’d even want to…_

      “I thought, other than me, only a Russian would be stupid enough to go swimming in the middle of December,” someone said in French. Viktor opened his eyes and looked up to see a shadow standing at the edge of the pool, a bottle of champagne and two glasses in his hands. “And I was right.”

      “Well, you’ve got to win _sometimes_ , Chris,” Viktor said, smiling up at him.

      Chris was wearing sunglasses even though the sun had fully set and it was dark outside, but Viktor imagined he’d narrowed his hazel-green eyes. Either way, he leaned down so he could kiss Viktor’s cheek. “Hello, _Coach_ ,”

      Viktor kissed Chris’ other cheek, trying not to wince at the unfamiliar bristle of his stubble. Yuuri was always clean shaven, and the Chris of Viktor’s memory had patchy facial hair at best. But things never stayed the same. “Do I detect sarcasm?”

      Chris laughed and shrugged.  He switched to speaking in English, “I came down here to go skinny dipping and you’ve thrown me off.”

      “Well, don’t let me stop you,” Viktor had been treading water by the pool’s edge, but now he moved back through the water to give Chris space. “Pour me a drink and I’ll get some pictures for your Instagram.”

      Chris laughed again and set the bottle and glasses down on a table nearby. “Got it, coach.”

      Banter had always come easily to Christophe, only adding to his image as a tease and a flirt. Viktor didn’t mind, though it made him feel odd when he remembered the Chris he’d first met a decade prior, who’d been all cherubic curls and fawn eyes. These days, you could catch him poledancing to a playlist called “Hoe Anthems” as part of his off-ice training.

      Viktor pulled himself out of the pool, hissing as the cool air hit his skin. “O _h mon putain de dieu_ ,”

      “You kiss Yuuri with that mouth?”

      Viktor scowled – he was fine with teasing, but he’d prefer to leave his Yuuri out of it. “It’s not your _business_ what I do to Yuuri with my mouth,”

      Chris snorted. “Well, when you put it like that…”

      “Plus chiant que toi, tu pourras pas en trouver,” Viktor snapped, but Chris only grinned at him, pleased at irritating his friend. “Are you pouring me a drink or what?”

      “Love you too, Coach Viktor,” Chris handed him the champagne flute he’d already fixed and went about fixing another for himself. He spoke in a light, conversational tone. “Do you think he’s ready for the Final?”

      “I think he’ll kick your ass back to Switzerland, Chris, but you know it’s not fair to talk about Yuuri when he’s not here,”

      Chris put on an over exaggerated pout. “You’re no fun now that you have _feelings_ and care about the wellbeing of others, Viktor,”

      Viktor rolled his eyes. There was a backhanded comment about Viktor’s past personality in there if he bothered to look, but he was well aware of how shitty he’d been to other people. _Before I found my two L’s… before Yuuri._ “Shut up and take your robe off or I’ll call Josef and tell him you’re drinking before the competition.”

      “Ah, you know Josef doesn’t care anymore,” Chris said as he shrugged his robe off. Underneath he wore a speedo that was probably a full size too small, and Viktor had to resist the urge to push him into the pool, champagne and all. “Anyway, he and Luca are getting dinner right now,”

      Viktor didn’t miss the way Chris’ lips lifted around Luca’s name. He raised his phone to start taking pictures as he asked, “Everything is still going well with you two?”

      Chris posed with his drink before downing half of it and saying, “Yes, _very_. He moved in over the summer, you know.”

      Viktor _hadn’t_ known that, but it made sense. Chris had been involved with Luca, a former competitive ice dancer, for several years now – at least, they’d been in the same social circles. It was only more recently that they started seeing each other, but Viktor thought they were a good couple. Luca was nearly thirty and retired from his sport, but he had talked his way into choreographing for Chris with Josef. He had a more sedate vibe than Chris’ lust after endless parties and raising hell (in a poised, artistic way only Chris could really pull off), but the men balanced each other out – and Viktor was happy for that.

      “I must’ve been busy, I missed the announcement. Congratulations, Chris, I really wish you two endless love and happiness.”

      Chris jumped into the pool, drenching Viktor and promptly making him redact his well-wishes.

 

      Yuuri only slept for around two hours, waking to an empty hotel room. “Viktor?” he asked before his sleep-blurred vision cleared. His sleep had been dreamless, but he didn’t feel any more at peace than he had when he’d lain down to nap.

      When no one answered, he found his glasses on the pillow next to him and retrieved his phone from the foot of the bed. There were several missed texts – Phichit had offered to go sightseeing, and was looking forward to company other than Celestino, who didn’t want to leave to hotel bar – and a couple post notifications from Instagram. Yuuri sighed into the pillow and opened the app. Chris had posted a picture of himself and Viktor (artfully posed to look like they were Instagram models but in a way that concealed Viktor’s tattoos) by a pool only minutes earlier – they were at the hotel pool, then, together. Yuuri swallowed back a flare of jealousy and kept scrolling. Phichit was at Sagrada Familia, taking selfies and complaining about the lighting in the captions of his posts. A post from Jean-Jacque Leroy placed him and his fiancée Isabella at some nearby restaurant, and there were a flurry in the tag Yuuri followed of “Yuri’s Angels”, showing an embarrassed Yuri surrounded by girls in cat ears. It looked like everyone was in Barcelona, ready for the Final.

      Yuuri let his phone slip through his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, his outstretched hand was pointed toward the empty side of the bed where Viktor should’ve been. He thought of what he’d said weeks and weeks earlier at the press conference for skaters to announce their themes for the season: _now that I know what love is and am stronger for it, I’ll prove it to myself with a Grand Prix Final gold medal_. What an asshole, how _stupid_ he’d been to say that.

      When he closed his eyes again, all Yuuri could see were his friends– his _competitors_ , damnit – landing their quads and skating so beautifully to perfectly tailored programs. And he saw himself at his last Grand Prix, the one that had been held right after poor Vicchan died. The Final where he fell jump after jump, where he disgraced his name and made a fool of himself in front of the whole world, where he’d thrown away all that he’d worked so fucking hard for.

      It was hard to breathe, made harder still by the pillow Yuuri was pressing his face into. It hurt to think; it hurt to imagine the outcome of this Final, though he was certain it would be another failure. How could he hope to win against a field of other qualifiers like this? The only reason he was here was because of all the work Viktor had put into him. There were tears threatening at the corners of his eyes, like hot pinpricks of shame. _Vitya, where are you? I know I won’t have you for much longer, but right now I don’t want to be without you. Help me, I need you_.

      Almost like he’d been summoned there, the hotel door flew open and the overhead light was switched on.

      “Yuuri?” Viktor called, his tone one that Yuuri knew he was smiling that blithe, heart-shaped smile without raising his head from the pillow. “I’m freezing! Can you draw a hot bath?”

      “Oh, can you make some coffee, too?” there was someone with him – Chris.

      Yuuri rolled over halfway to face the door, feeling like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When Viktor met his eyes, a flicker of concern passed over his face.

      “Were you still sleeping?” Viktor asked, already shedding the towel from around him and clambering over the bed between them to Yuuri’s side.

      “I – _fuck_ , Vitya, you’re freezing!” Yuuri tried to push Viktor away, but he’d wrapped himself tightly around him like an octopus.

      “Mm, you’re _warm_ , though, pыбка,” Viktor said, pressing a firm kiss over the place where Yuuri’s heart was beating against his chest. They were skin-to-skin, bodies fit against each other like they were each made to lie flush with the other.

      “And here I was reprimanding Viktor over his swearing,” Chris purred, flopping down on Yuuri’s other side and draping one of his heavy, well-muscled legs over both Yuuri and Viktor.

      Yuuri yelped, “ _Christophe_!” but he was laughing as he extracted himself from between the other men. “I can’t stand either one of you,”

      Viktor trailed after Yuuri, and Chris came along a moment later, relocating to perch on the counter of the room’s kitchenette. “That’s new,” he said as Yuuri walked past, as nonchalantly as one might comment on a freckle they hadn’t noticed before.

      Yuuri remembered all at once that he was shirtless – something that didn’t matter with Viktor, of course, but with Chris… he looked over his shoulder to meet Viktor’s eyes. Viktor didn’t look concerned, though; he rocked forward to close the space between them and kiss Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri forced himself to take a deep breath.

      “Yeah, it is,” he said, pointedly not looking at the Swiss skater, because the snake tattoo _was_ new, and if Chris was commenting on the fact that he didn’t know Yuuri had had tattoos at all… well, seeing them for the first time would still make them new, wouldn’t it?

      Chris didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it seemed he was completely unperturbed by how obviously tense Yuuri was. “You’ve got more ink than I remember, Katsuki… but then again, so does Viktor.”

 _…Than I remember_ , Yuuri repeated in his mind. What did Chris mean by that?

      Viktor let go of Yuuri to produce the Bolshoi Ballet from the carryon he’d taken on the plane and passed it to him before turning to Chris with a wistful look in his eye. “You used to make fun of _my_ tattoos mercilessly.”

      Chris barked a laugh. “For good reason! I don’t know how you stand them, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri had emerged from pulling on Viktor’s sweatshirt and he looked between the others for a heartbeat before answering. He didn’t really want to talk about tattoos, and he didn’t want to talk about the friends-with-benefits relationship Viktor had had with Chris as a young adult. Even so, he wasn’t above acting bolder than he felt and saying, “Well, _one_ of us has to have good ink.”

      Viktor gasped in a dramatic way and Chris all but howled. “ _Oh_! He _got_ you, Vik!”

      He wouldn’t say it, but Yuuri felt something fiercely possessive and proud rear up in him to realize that Viktor hadn’t asked Chris to call him by any diminutive. It made it a little easier to breathe – that and Viktor’s arms wrapped around his waist, pressed close enough that Yuuri could smell the chlorine on his skin.

      Viktor sighed and looked up at Yuuri through his blond eyelashes. “Yeah, he got me there, but _I’ve_ got _him_ , so really we’re even,”

      Chris’ laughter became a little ‘ _aww’_ and Yuuri flushed. Even though it had been a little more than a month since they kissed on ice, neither Viktor nor Yuuri had addressed the exact nature of their relationship to the press, though many saw it for what it was (and how could they not?). He put his arm around Viktor’s shoulders, though, and looked over at Chris, waiting for some other joke to be made at his expense. But there wasn’t another joke.

      Chris slipped off the counter and began poking around the kitchenette. “I’m making coffee if _you_ won’t, Yuuri. Josef doesn’t like me having caffeine before competitions, but sometimes a good café au lait is the only thing that’ll hit the spot,”

      “I’m afraid we don’t have any milk…” Yuuri started, but Viktor snorted and interrupted, “Wow, Chris, I should tell Luca that and see what _he_ thinks,”

      Chris gasped, but his eyes were sparkling and there was no venom when he said, “Viktor, je vais te casser la gueule si fort que tu vas cracher toutes les dents!”

      Viktor lifted his chin haughtily from where he’d still been leaning on Yuuri. “You wouldn’t _dare_! I’d be dropped by Dior, and then who would you get discounts from?”

      The knock-off Keurig machine was almost done making Chris’ coffee, so he only spared Viktor a withering look over his shoulder, and then a mildly irritated glance to Yuuri. “Yuuri, I thought you’d be a better influence on him,”

      Yuuri chuckled. “Surely you’re not under the impression that Viktor _listens_ to me?”

      Viktor yelped. “I listen to you, pыбка!”

      “I know, baby,” Yuuri said in an undertone, still laughing as he smoothed Viktor’s chlorine-crunchy hair down, “I’m teasing,”

      Chris took a loud sip of his coffee. “You two are cute, but here’s a hot take: Viktor, we’ve been friends for a decade, where’s _my_ cute nickname?”

      Viktor took a break from trying to pull the Bolshoi Ballet sweatshirt over his freezing body without making Yuuri take it off. “You have one, what are you talking about?”

      “Alright, well, calling me ‘bastard’ or a ‘diva’ doesn’t count,”

      “Doesn’t it?” Viktor asked, tilting his head and looking between Yuuri and Chris. He only seemed a little insulted when Chris snorted so hard that he splashed his coffee and Yuuri had to hold himself steady on Viktor’s shoulder from laughing.

 

      Yuuri was in a better mood after Chris left about an hour later, kissing them both twice on the cheek and departing with a cryptic, “If you don’t already have plans for the banquet, let me know, mon cher,” to Yuuri.

      He sat in the bathroom while Viktor bathed, going as far as insisting on putting a purple hair mask in Viktor’s hair while he sat in the tub. Viktor didn’t complain; on the contrary, he leaned halfway out of the tub and sighed dreamily as Yuuri worked the conditioner through his hair to lift the green tint the chlorine had left it with.

      “Thank you, pыбка… hmm, what’s with the face?”

      Yuuri had been staring off into space, and he glanced down to see Viktor watching him with concern. He made himself smile, though. “Nothing, Vitya. I was just thinking – if you told me a year ago that I’d be at the Grand Prix Final putting a hair treatment in Viktor Nikiforov’s hair while he sat in the bath, I would have laughed so hard that I cried. But here we are…”

      Viktor smiled, thinking of his ruminations before Chris had interrupted him at the pool. He brought a hand out of the water to lace his fingers with Yuuri’s and pull him in for a lingering kiss. “Yeah, here we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys I'm back .･ﾟﾟ･(／ω＼)･ﾟﾟ･. !! I'm sorry it's been so long, and I can't promise that I'll be back to posting like twice a week as I did in the beginning, not only because my laptop is acting funky but i'll be on vacation soon :/ that being said, i'll be responding to asks and comments no matter what because tbh this fic is my LIFE and sharing it with y'all has meant the world. (That aside WHAT DO WE THINK ABOUT THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF ICE ADOLESCENCE?????? Come holler about it w me on [tumblr](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) xoxox)
> 
> If you didn't check out the explanation of Yuuri's tattoos [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/yuuri-ink) (ft. my own drawings and reference images), this chapter was the reveal of his back piece. What did you think?
> 
> Also, here's your regular reminder that i don't speak Russian, Japanese, or French fluently/at all, so I've relied on outside sources. For the banter between Viktor and Chris, I tried to familiarize myself with some French [insults](https://www.lovefrance.info/top-8-insults-in-french/) and [swears](https://www.lovefrance.info/french-swear-words/) ft. my rudimentary knowledge. If you're plugging them in to google translate, keep in mind that the translations may be literal, so it may look funky :)
> 
> Want to read about Viktor's past in this AU? You can find it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952744) ❤️
> 
> I don't think there's any more housekeeping for this chapter, but if I've missed something let me know. I look forward to reading your thoughts on this chapter!  
> Next time: Day 1 in Barcelona, ft. a ton of angst but also some very nice things ;)


	17. My Love Is Average; I Obey An Average Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I know it's true_  
>  _This is wrong, love_  
> ...  
>  _Doing okay so far_  
>  _I'm just waiting on the feathers and tar_  
>  _You are the only one_  
>  _You are_
> 
> With one day to the start of the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri and Viktor go walking through Barcelona, each searching for something in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's unpack some of these intrusive thoughts Yuuri has been having, hmm?? Also, what's shiny and round and gold?
> 
> title is from Tibetan Pop Stars by Hop-Along.

       Yuuri was determined not to let his nerves get to him. There was still a full day before the competition began for the senior men, which could mean a full day of getting himself worked up – or a full day of staying in control of his anxiety disorder and preparing with Viktor to compete. This would be his last competition with Viktor, anyway, and he wanted everything to be perfect.

      Of course, that didn’t mean Yuuri was all that prepared to get out of bed in the morning. When Viktor whisked the duvet off of him and began chattering excitedly about what a lovely day it was, Yuuri’s first inclination was to groan and put the pillow over his head. Viktor was crafty though, and he’d had plenty of practice in getting his sleeping beauty up and out of bed.

      “Come on, my shining star, it’s time to wake up.”

      Yuuri batted the heart-smiling, blurry silver-platinum blob of his boyfriend away. Viktor caught his hand, though, and pressed a smacking kiss to the palm of it.

      “ _Yu-u-u-ri_ , come on, darling. It’s already so lovely outside today.”

      “Too early,” Yuuri grunted, trying to roll over. Viktor caught him around the waist.

      “No, it’s _just_ the right time, pыбка,” Viktor purred, pushing the pillow Yuuri was trying to pull over his face again aside and kissing both his cheeks first before kissing him on the mouth. Yuuri’s eyes flew open.

      “Vitya!” he gasped, eyes wide, “I have _morning breath_.”

      Viktor shrugged, obviously fighting a smile. “I guess you’ll just have to get up and brush your teeth, then,”

      Yuuri had already scrambled out of bed when he realized that Viktor had successfully gotten him up for the day. He was too amused to be properly irritated, though. While he washed his face and brushed his teeth, Yuuri evaluated his mood. Things didn’t feel quite as dire as they had the night before, when all he could think of was his impending failure. _I’ve just got to keep moving forward today_ , he told himself, _I can’t give myself any room to sit and dwell_.

      When he came back from the bathroom, Yuuri put a hand on Viktor’s chest and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for waking me up,”

      Viktor smiled at Yuuri, fluttering his eyelashes. “Well of course, pыбка,” he was saying, but Yuuri cut him off with a kiss to the lips. Before he could lose the nerve, he said, “You’re really beautiful in the morning, Vitya, with your blond eyelashes.”

      And as quick as he’d gone to him, Yuuri turned away and busied himself with gathering clothes for the morning practice before Viktor could see the blush high on his cheeks. _I’m going to make today perfect for him._

 

      Viktor had been telling the truth when he said that it was a lovely day – the morning was bright, crisp, and cool. They decided to walk the few blocks from the official hotel to the rink. Viktor was moving a little stiffly, favoring the femur that had been broken a decade earlier, and Yuuri had to bite his tongue against making a comment about swimming in December, which most likely hadn’t helped the old break. Viktor didn’t say anything about it, though, so Yuuri thought better than ruffling his feathers.

      By the time they arrived at Centre de Convencions Internacional de Barcelona, most of the other skaters and their coaches were milling around the lobby, as well as what had to be as many spectators. Yuuri balked a little when faced so abruptly by so many people on what he hadn't been thinking of as a competition day - the opening ceremony wasn't until that evening, wasn't it? Viktor was a steady presence at his side, a casual arm draped over his shoulders.

      “Remember, pыбка, the pairs and singles ladies and juniors are here, too. Their respective competitions happen concurrently with the mens singles - competition for the juniors starts after lunch, and the ladies and pairs shorts are tonight. That’s who all these people are. Nothing to be concerned over.”

      Yuuri nodded and forced himself to relax a little. So maybe he’d forgotten that this would be a massive event – he’d been thinking abstractly only of the Final for mens singles. But that was alright; he was just here for the official briefing and a short allotted practice time. Viktor moved his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder to tap at where the top of the cherry blossom branch was tattooed, silently reminding Yuuri that he’d dealt with larger challenges. So Yuuri squared his shoulders and stepped out from Viktor’s protective arm and properly entered the building.

      Of the six skaters in the Final – JJ, Chris, Phichit, Otabek, Yuri, and Yuuri – Yuuri was the second to last to arrive. The other mens singles skaters were spread out among the rinkside benches, pulling on their skates. It looked like the coaches were all congregated a little ways away, talking amongst themselves. Viktor gave Yuuri’s shoulder one last squeeze before squaring his shoulders and putting on his magazine-cover smile and striding towards them. Yuuri watched as Yakov made a face and turned away pointedly; Viktor’s stride did not falter, he simply changed course and walked to Chris’ coach Josef instead. JJ swaggered into the venue as Yuuri took a spot at a bench to start putting his skates on. A little ways down from him, Yuri audibly hissed under his breath.

      “Alright, Yurio?”

      Yuri turned to Yuuri, scowling deeply, and after a second’s hesitation, he began to lean conspiratorially towards him. “That _prick_ –”

      “Oh, Yuri-chan!” JJ boomed, making both Yuri and Yuuri sit straight up with twin looks of irritation. “Are you ready to be out-skated by a king? _Again_?”

 _If this is why Yurio’s seething, I don’t mind joining him_ , Yuuri thought, doing his best to give the kid a sympathetic look.

     Instead of getting involved, though, Yuuri turned back to lacing his skates. He was avoiding drama today; he was there to do his practice skate and to be briefed by the skating officials, that was all. It was harder than he wanted to admit, though, not getting involved when he could see Yuri’s cheeks turning pinker by the second as JJ continued making remarks meant to goad the fifteen year old into making a scene. Yuri was keeping up a steady stream of expletive-ridden Russian under his breath, but refused to look in JJ’s direction, which was likely wise of him, but didn’t mean the situation wouldn’t escalate.

      Thankfully, Lilia Baranovskya appeared at Yuri’s side. “ _Yuri_ _Plisetsky_ , cледите за своим ртом!”

     That was what Yuri needed to shift him back into a proper competitive mindset; he raised his chin and apologized to his choreographer before getting to his feet and walking over to Yakov by the boards without so much as a backwards sneer to JJ. Which, of course, left Lilia still standing over Yuuri, who was tying the last of his laces. He could feel her heavy gaze on him as he got to his feet, self-consciously brushing invisible dust from his sweater and training pants.

      “Is that Vitya’s or Minako’s?” she asked suddenly, still staring intently at him.

      Yuuri flinched from its unexpectedness; Lilia had never before addressed him. He cleared his suddenly dry throat before saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand,”

      Lilia’s severe eyebrows raised a fraction and she gestured to the sweatshirt Yuuri wore. “Does that belong to Viktor or Minako? I am correct in that you train with Minako Okukawa?”

 _Oh_ , Yuuri thought, blinking rapidly, _she knows Minako-senpai?_ “This sweatshirt belongs to Vitya, actually. I wasn’t aware that you knew Minako, Ms. Baranovskya…”

      Lilia raised her chin much like Yuri had moments earlier. “Yes, I know her. I was already the Bolshoi principle when she came to Moscow State Academy – the Bolshoi School. Of course she wasn’t there for the full curriculum; she transferred to the School of American Ballet. But you know her career credentials, I am sure.”

     Yuuri wanted to tell her no, that he’d never really delved into his teacher’s background because she’d always just been… _Minako_ to him and his family, not an internationally recognized ballerina, but didn’t have a chance. Viktor was wandering over, looking between Lilia and Yuuri with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

     “Good morning, Lilia,” he greeted her, offering a hand to shake. Lilia ignored his hand and instead pulled him into a hug.

      In Russian, she said, “You don’t live under my roof for that long and then _shake my hand_ , Viktor Evgenievich. I’ve known you since you were _born_ ,”

      Viktor flushed a little and squeezed her a little closer in answer. “Thank you, Lilia.”

      “Well,” she said, already pulling away from him but reaching up to pat his cheek, “It will irritate Yasha, anyway.”

      Viktor stifled a laugh with the back of his hand. “Yes, it will.”

     Lilia looked over at Yuuri, who had been watching the exchange between Russians with a look of polite discomfort. She addressed him in her thickly accented English, saying, “Break a leg, Mr. Katsuki.”

      Yuuri stuttered his thanks to her and with that, she was gone. Viktor raised his eyebrows at Yuuri. “Everything okay, pыбка?”

      “Hmm?” Yuuri had been watching Lilia rejoin Yakov by the boards, where the old man had a definite scowl on his face. Viktor was patient, catching Yuuri’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Oh, yes. Ms. Baranovskya came over to warn Yurio against swearing, I think, because JJ was trying to start something, and then she noticed your sweatshirt and asked me about it.”

      Viktor smiled, his eyes softening. “I told you that she was one of my mother’s instructors, right?”

      Yuuri squeezed Viktor’s hand back. They started making their way through the throng of sports reporters that had come to cover the morning warmups and the group of coaches and choreographers between the benches and the ice. “Yes. She just told me that she knows Minako, which I didn’t know,”

      “Oh.”

      Yuuri stopped to raise an eyebrow and not-quite-frown at Viktor. “You knew?”

      Viktor grimaced a little. “It may have come up? Don’t be upset, I thought _you_ knew!”

    Really, Yuuri was more intrigued than cross, but didn’t get to say so, because apparently Christophe had overheard the last of their conversation. He sauntered over (honestly, who else could saunter around in skates and skateguards?) and threw an arm around both Yuuri and Viktor’s shoulders.

      “Ah, trouble in paradise?”

      “We’re fine, Chris,” Yuuri said, just as Viktor gave his friend a withering look and said, “Va te faire foutre!”

      Chris only laughed at what was obviously some sort of swear. “Just checking, you two. I don’t want something to jeopardize Yuuri’s bid for the _podium_ , you know,”

      There was an announcement allowing the mens singles skaters onto the ice for morning practice, but Viktor held Yuuri back a moment after Chris left them.

      “Now, I’m not condoning violence but if you want to trip him –”

      Yuuri cut him off with a laugh, holding himself steady on Viktor’s shoulder. “ _Vitya_! No!”

      Viktor smiled a proper heart for Yuuri. “Alright, alright, pыбка, it was just a suggestion. But in all seriousness, I don’t think you should do any quads out there, alright? Do your step sequences, but don’t overdo anything, okay?”

      Part of Yuuri wanted to argue, but instead he caught his hand on Viktor’s sleeve and tugged him along in his wake to the gate onto the ice. He didn’t speak until he was on the ice, passing his skateguards over.

      “I know it’s only a warm up, but… you’re not going to take your eyes off me, right?”

      “Of course not.”

 

      Viktor was all but draped over the boards next to Yuuri as the other skaters began trailing off the ice. Yuuri leaned next to him, drinking water and staring out across the ice, most likely visualizing tomorrow’s skate. Like Viktor had asked, Yuuri had focused more on his footwork than any jumps – which Viktor was glad for. He knew Yuuri could land quads at home, but he also was well aware of how bad practices could violently throw Yuuri off. His goal for the Final was to keep Yuuri focused and calm. _The aggressive jump composition Yuri has planned in order to win_ does _have the quad flip as his final free skate jump, and he’s yet to land that cleanly_ , a niggling voice in Viktor’s mind reminded him. _If he sticks with his old jumps – and lands them all cleanly – Leroy still has a higher base score._

      “Well, I’m done with practice!” JJ announced to everyone in the vicinity. “Off I go!”

      Viktor’s eyes went a few meters down the boards where Yakov and Yuri stood, Yuri looking murderously in JJ’s direction. It looked like Yakov was giving Yuri advice, and Yuri seemed to be taking it instead of arguing. Maybe it was the intensity of the Final hanging over him. Viktor looked back to Yuuri, who was watching him with those big mahogany doe eyes. Viktor fought the urge to clutch at his chest (or better, vault over the boards and make out with Yuuri on the ice) and forced what he hoped was an encouraging, coach-like smile.

      “So, Yuuri,” he began, speaking slowly, cautiously. “I know I didn’t have you going through your quads today, but just so you’re aware… with the program you have planned, you’re only just going to have a higher base score than JJ, assuming you both skate flawlessly.”

      Yuuri nodded slowly. “And that’s if I do a flip instead of a toe loop.”

      “Right,” Viktor confirmed, searching Yuuri’s face for signs of anxiety.

      Far from looking stressed, Yuuri looked as determined as Viktor had seen him. “Okay, I understand,” he said, nodding and holding his hand out for his skateguards.

      Viktor stood stock-still outside the gate so Yuuri could lean on him while he snapped the skateguards into place. “So Yuuri, what do you want to do for the rest of the day? We can stick around for the opening ceremony, if you'd like, but we don't have to... I recommend a good night’s rest to prepare for tomorrow’s program.”

      Yuuri made a face at Viktor and used the arm he had around his shoulders to pull himself flush against his chest, ignoring the remaining coaches and skaters around the rink. “Vitya, don’t you start acting like a model coach, now. This is my first time in Barcelona and I want you to take me sightseeing.”

      Viktor blinked at Yuuri ready to pull out a list of excuses – _I promised you that you’d win gold, so you need to be in top form; I don’t want you to somehow be noticed as yakuza and end up in a sticky situation; I don’t want you to get anxious in the city_ – but Yuuri had a smile slowly crossing his lips and he was damn near batting his eyelashes, and there was no way Viktor could tell him no.

      “Okay, pыбка, leave it to me!”

 

      They returned first to the hotel to change (and Yuuri showered again, only feeling a little bit guilty for using some of Viktor’s nice shampoo – in his defense, it was a much better shower than the rink offered, and gave him an opportunity to clean the still-healing snake tattoo with castile soap he’d brought from home). When Viktor saw through the glass bathroom wall that Yuuri was drying off, he let himself in, brandishing a jar of moisturizer.

      “You usually get a little, uh, squirmy in your clothes after you shower,” Viktor explained, looking a little sheepish.

     Yuuri was torn between delight that Viktor had picked up on this without Yuuri saying anything (that he’d decided to come help Yuuri get lotion over the hard-to-reach places of the tattoo that covered so much of his back, that he was thinking about Yuuri’s comfort in general) and despair that this would all be ending before long (trying to push aside the loop of thoughts shouting, _you can’t keep him to yourself, you’re selfish and you should never have become so attached, Viktor isn’t yours to keep, he’s the world’s figure skating legend and his bratva’s middle tier centerpiece of power and a chain of respect – not yours, not yours, not yours_ ).

      Instead of saying any of this, though, and tarnishing the perfect day Yuuri was determined for them to have, Yuuri thought back to the Russian he’d been more or less teaching himself. He turned over his shoulder and, keeping his hands on the towel around his waist, simply raised his chin to offer a kiss and said, “Спасибо, любовь моя,”

      Viktor smiled so widely that his eyes were reduced to slivers of sea-blue gems. “You’re so good to me, Yuuri, you know that?” he murmured before kissing Yuuri softly, lingeringly.

       Yuuri pulled back first, heart aching when Viktor followed him, his eyes still closed. “If you say so, Vitya.”

     Still, Viktor was happy to work the moisturizer into the healing tattoo for Yuuri without prompting. His hands were longer than Yuuri’s, but thinner and more delicately boned, but he could apply such even pressure through them that in another lifetime he might’ve made a good living as a masseuse. And sure, Yuuri had to remind Viktor that he was competing tomorrow and to _please keep things PG_ when Viktor reached the end of the snake (the last tail coil ending in the middle of Yuuri’s left buttock), but by the end of the short massage he was feeling better again about the whole situation. Sure, it was going to hurt like hell when this was all over, but for now there was nothing wrong with savoring what was left of their time together.

      They left the bathroom hand-in-hand, Yuuri still more or less holding the towel around his waist and a pink flush riding high on their respective cheekbones. Naturally, Viktor was already mostly dressed to go out in slacks and a black and white color-blocked sweater that looked reasonable but likely was designer and had probably cost an arm and a leg. Yuuri always felt a little frumpy whenever they ventured out together to meetings Yamamoto or Fukuyama had set up with brands for sponsorships or even when they traveled (in Hasetsu, though, Viktor more or less dressed casually – when he could be cajoled not to roam around in one of the inn’s jinbei). But still, somewhat stubbornly, Yuuri wouldn’t take Viktor’s offers of borrowing clothes – his cuffed jeans (a staple in modern queer attire) and pressed button downs had served him just fine for years, and this would be no different.

      It was only around lunch time, so once Yuuri was dressed and Viktor was done putting his face on, they headed out for the day. Upon arriving in Barcelona, the athletes competing in the Final had all been gifted with a package of menus and advertisements for local attractions that had paid money to sponsor CCIB. It was with several of these in hand that Yuuri and Viktor started on their small tour of Barcelona.

      “It’s been a while since I was here last,” Viktor said conversationally, catching Yuuri’s hand with his own glove-clad one.

      “Yeah?” Yuuri said conversationally. He was fluttering his eyelashes in a kind of suggestive way, but he wasn’t really trying to seduce Viktor – Yuuri just wanted to feel the movements of his own body, wanted things to be so tangible that he’d never forget today.

     Viktor didn’t seem to notice, anyway. He was smiling, the midday light catching his hair, his eyes, even his teeth and making him sparkle. “Yeah, it was when I wasn’t skating. Lilia brought me along while she visited the Víctor Ullate School of Danse in Madrid and then we took the train over here to Barcelona to shop. I think I was twenty-one? Still grappling, you know, with not being a piece of shit to everyone I interacted with… I’m glad you didn’t meet me when I was like that.”

      Yuuri looked over at Viktor, whose eyes had become far away as he spoke. “Because you think I wouldn’t have liked you?”

      “I _know_ you wouldn’t have. I was a mess, chain-smoking and still going behind Yakov’s back to spend more time with bratoks than I should’ve. In retrospect, though, things did turn out okay… I always wonder, if we changed the past, what would happen to the lives we know now? If I never went through a rough patch like that, if I was always this airheaded champion set up on a pedestal for figure skating, would I even know how to live a normal life? Would I have ever crossed paths with you?”

      Yuuri shivered. He didn’t want to think about that. “But our paths _did_ cross.”

      “That’s right. I’m grateful for you all the time, you know that, pыбка?” Viktor said, squeezing Yuuri’s hand. “But let’s not speak more of unpleasant times. How do you feel about getting lunch?”

 

      The original plan had been sightseeing, of course, but Viktor got distracted by Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona’s most luxurious shopping strip. Yuuri wasn’t much for shopping, but he didn’t want to ruffle any feathers – this was the day he needed Viktor to remember as perfect. And anyway, they’d been to Sagrada Familia, and the top of Arenas de Barcelona (a bullfighting ring-turned-mall) that overlooked the Venetian Towers and the Plaza de España, so it wasn’t like they’d seen _nothing_ of Barcelona’s sights.

      They went to all kinds of boutiques on Passeig de Gràcia that Yuuri normally would have never set foot in. A luxury leather dealer (which Viktor assured Yuuri, when they left the shop without a purchase, didn’t quite compare to Hermès, whom he had a contract with), an artisanal nut shop, an expensive tea shop, a luxury skincare boutique, a sunglasses retailer (where Viktor agonized over choosing between a pair of Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel glasses before buying _both_ pairs), a high-end makeup store (where Viktor delighted in brushing tester highlighters over the tip of Yuuri’s nose and crooning about him being a real shining star).

     And who knew nice men’s clothes retailers also had underwear lines? Yuuri thought he must’ve been pink all over, standing there as Viktor asked his opinion on various pairs of ridiculously cut black briefs (he thought he was going to actually die when he noticed that among the pairs Viktor bought, there was one with a literal panel of lace, as delicate as you’d see in women’s lingerie – the mental image of Viktor, pale and fit, wearing those, and the contrast between black lace and his skin with its covering in actual mafia tattoos… Yuuri was _done_ for).

     It wasn’t all high-end stores that Viktor pulled Yuuri into; he was almost equally fond of cheap shops that sold clothes meant more for teenagers. He didn’t tut over the quality of fabrics – which no doubt didn’t compare to the Yves St. Laurent he was wearing – but actually seemed to like several pieces, including a gaudy button-up printed with a pattern of flowers, socks with roaring tigers (to slip into Yuri’s luggage, Viktor explained), and a long black wrap skirt for lounging that Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder if Viktor would tie as poorly as he tied the inn’s jinbei.

     Finally, Viktor pointed out an empty bench in front of one of Gaudí’s works, the Casa Batlló, and asked Yuuri if he’d like to take a breather. Trying not to show his relief, Yuuri dropped gracelessly onto it, the bags of Viktor’s purchases surrounding him.

      “This is so fun,” Viktor crooned, his whole face lit up around his smile as he looked down at Yuuri. “I haven’t shopped in ages!”

      Yuuri mustered a smile. “Yeah?”

      Viktor nodded. “Yeah! Of course, I’d have preferred to shop when the euro was weaker, but what can I say? It’s not like I have control over inflation… or _could_ I…?”

      A surprised snort-laugh escaped Yuuri’s mouth as he understood Viktor’s implications. Of _course_ Viktor would try to finagle his mafia connection with Russia’s government to somehow influence the strength of currency in order to have a better time shopping. Viktor was watching Yuuri with a serious expression, but he quickly lost it in favor of joining him in laughing.

      “You’re a wild and crazy man, Vitya,”

      Viktor’s eyes went soft and crinkled at the corners looking at Yuuri, and Yuuri’s whole stomach was a mess of butterflies (thinking _, I won’t have this for much longer, but I hope I never forget the way he looks at me. I don’t think anyone ever will again_ ). “How are you holding up, pыбка? Are you quite sure you don’t want anything?”

      Yuuri lied through his teeth, but he was good at that. “Me? I’m great.”

      “Good!” Viktor said, his smile widening, “Because I’ve just had a fantastic idea. I’m going to get you a new suit.”

      “Vitya! No, you can’t, that’s –”

      “Yes I _can_ , darling! It’ll be a birthday present; you can’t turn down _birthday_ presents.”

      Even a normal suit would cost a lot; knowing Viktor, he was going to try to get Yuuri some kind of bespoke Dior suit. Viktor couldn’t do this; Yuuri wasn’t worth something like that, he didn’t deserve a gift so extravagant, it wasn’t fair.

      Viktor was already pulling Yuuri to his feet with half the bags of purchases. Yuuri swallowed a swell of panic and tried to backtrack, saying, “Okay, Viktor, but my birthday’s already happened.”

      A crease appeared between Viktor’s neat eyebrows. “Your birthday passed and you didn’t tell me?”

      Yuuri’s mind flashed to how they’d spent his birthday – the late night before of Viktor’s confessions and getting each other off leading to a blissfully long morning spent in bed, naked and flush against each other, never not touching in some way, and then an afternoon of skating their harebrained similar pair skate (that is to say, practicing lifts and falling many times, not minding, though, for the excuse it gave them to press each other into the ice and kiss before returning to the skate with renewed intensity). No, he hadn’t told Viktor it was his birthday, but he didn’t have to – it had still easily been the best birthday he’d ever had; one of the best days of his life in general.

      “November 26… It was… ah, do you remember when we went to the beach and you told me about the years you didn’t compete?”

      Viktor’s cheeks flushed almost immediately, but he smiled and shrugged. “So _that_ was your birthday. I don’t think _I’m_ a present enough for you, though, pыбка. Come, let’s get that suit!”

     But he couldn’t let Viktor do this, not unless… not unless he could give him something equally extravagant. _Something to remember me by_. Yuuri sighed and let a smile twitch across his lips. “Alright, Vitya.”

      “I think you should burn the suit and tie you wore at that press conference,” Viktor said, grabbing Yuuri’s hand.

      Yuuri frowned, letting himself be pulled along. “Hey, I kind of _like_ that suit!”

 

      The suit Viktor got Yuuri wasn’t Dior, after all, and it wasn’t bespoke (though Viktor did say something about thinking a tighter tailor would do Yuuri’s ass more justice). It was a very nice Calvin Klein, dark navy (Viktor had wanted burgundy; Yuuri shot him down – that was too bold) and a shirt in the lightest pink. The suit being so lovely and obviously expensive didn’t stop Viktor from grousing a little, standing behind Yuuri on the platform in front of the mirror and running his hands over the fabric, the seams, the buttons, looking for something to criticize, something he could use as an excuse to justify purchasing another suit for Yuuri.

      “When the Final is over, I’m calling Marc Jacobs. He’ll know how to properly tailor for your ass.”

     “ _Vitya_!” Yuuri gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the sound of fabric shifting; Viktor must’ve shrugged. But he couldn’t help adding, “Do you mean… the _real_ Marc Jacobs? You’d just _call_ him?”

      Viktor huffed a sigh. “Well of course, darling, I’ve known him for years. But you know what, pыбка? We _really_ should contact Gucci. You’d look so stunning in bold florals, my _god_.”

      Yuuri was staring up at the ceiling, trying to keep his breathing even. If he looked in the mirror and saw as well as felt the way Viktor was wrapped around him, smoothing his hands along his front, he would be in danger of springing a hard-on in the middle of the store, and that was the last thing they needed. But that didn’t stop him from shifting back a little to bump his ass against Viktor, thinking of it as a kind of chaste hip check.

      “There’s no _way_ , Vitya.”

      Viktor, on the other hand, would look like a god – more like a god than usual – in those bright colors and patterns. Yuuri wanted to add that, but Viktor was releasing him, stepping down from the platform. Yuuri was afraid he’d actually hurt his feelings, but when he looked over his shoulder in askance his eyes widened at Viktor’s pink cheeks. _Oh, my_ god _, how did that turn him on? It’s just_ me _… surely that’s not from me alone. He’s simply excitable because it’s the Final._ Pursing his lips against a sheepish smile, Yuuri watched as Viktor muttered something about going to sit in the lobby to wait for the bill.

      When the suit was purchased and zipped into a garment bag, Viktor caught Yuuri’s hand once again and pulled him out into the square. While they’d been inside, night had begun to fall. Viktor glanced at his watch – it was a little after six. They’d been traipsing around Barcelona for hours, then, but Yuuri didn’t seem tired – or even too anxious about the first day of competition in the morning. Viktor rubbed his thumb fondly over the back of Yuuri’s hand, smiling when Yuuri glanced up at him through his lovely eyelashes. And then Viktor remembered something he’d noticed when he’d given Yuuri some space at the suit store – they were missing one of the bags of purchases.

      Yuuri looked horrified when Viktor told him. “Oh, no,” he said, face looking far more ashen than a bag of nuts should’ve warranted. “And you’re sure they’re not at the suit place?”

      “I didn’t see them there – I mean, that’s where I did my inventory of sorts – but we could check, if you’d like.” Viktor frowned. Yuuri’s voice had gone into one of its panicked pitches, but he’d been so calm all day.

      “I must not have grabbed them when we left the bench!” Yuuri wasn’t even looking at Viktor, just staring wide-eyed into the distance.

      “It’s okay, Yuuri,” Viktor started, putting a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri shrugged him off.

      “Ugh, it’s _really_ not. How much did you spend on those? Come on, we’ve got to see if they’re still there.”

      Viktor couldn’t help thinking he’d made a big mistake in telling Yuuri – why did he care so much, anyway? Wordlessly, they made their way back to the bench where they’d paused earlier to let Yuuri catch his breath. It was no surprise to Viktor that the bag was gone. Someone else might’ve mistaken it for theirs, or even mistaken it for trash. But there was no point in dwelling, right? So it was lost. That was unpleasant but it happened, sometimes.

      “So it’s not here, either,” Yuuri said, his voice wavering.

      “Yuuri, just calm down and remember,” Viktor said, his voice sharper than he intended. He felt unnerved, watching Yuuri’s mood change like this. “It’s a bag of nuts we just bought; a brown bag with a green print on it.”

      Yuuri paced the area around the bench while Viktor spoke, coming up with nothing. Slowly, he returned to Viktor and stood a few paces away from him, looking again at the ground.

      “I’m sorry, Vitya,” he said, “I have no idea where I dropped it. But I’ll go back to the shop and replace them!”

    “It’s alright, pыбка,” Viktor said, doing his best to smile even though his thoughts were spinning wildly. _All day I’ve been acting like nothing is wrong but I’ve missed something. Why is he so upset over a bag of nuts? I don’t want to send him into the Final like this, so stressed. This isn’t right._ “The shop where we bought them will be closed by now. So let’s just head back – you must be tired.”

      Yuuri opened his mouth to respond, but something stopped him. He studied Viktor’s face, and his brows slowly dropped into a frown, his jaw squared and raised. “Well, you don’t have to say it like _that_ ,”

      Viktor frowned, too. He didn’t want to pick a fight, but the agitation rolling off Yuuri in waves was getting to him. His voice was too loud when he snapped, “Well, _I’m_ tired.”

      The muscles in Yuuri’s jaws were working. Viktor had seen him irritated before, but never like this – never this degree of agitation, and never directed toward him. There had been that awful glass skater’s heart incident, but this was different. But Viktor was proud and he didn’t look away from Yuuri’s narrowed eyed glare. Not until he realized just how hard Yuuri was breathing. Then, when he glanced at Yuuri’s hands, he could see that they were trembling. Viktor didn’t think twice before closing the distance between them and pulling Yuuri into his arms.

      “Oh, _Yuuri_. Never mind the missing bag, alright? It’s fine, I promise. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

      It was a heartbeat before Yuuri relaxed into Viktor’s touch. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t apologize, pыбка, there’s no need. Now, do you want to walk around some more?”

      Yuuri hesitated, his face still tucked into Viktor’s chest. But he shifted a little, rested his chin in a way that let him look up at Viktor. “I’d like that.”

      They walked in silence. Fira de Santa Llúcia, the Barcelona Christmas Market, was open and now that night had fallen, it was where most of the tourists who had been in the square shopping were headed. Everything was brightly lit and cheerful. There was a good crowd of people, but not as much as there probably would be closer to Christmas. Yuuri didn’t feel one way or another about them. He held Viktor’s hand loosely in his own and instead thought about how to salvage the day. He’d been trying so hard to make everything perfect and then he had to go and misplace the goddamn nuts and then get grouchy at Viktor about it, no less. He still felt a considerable amount of anxiety, trying to figure out how much damage he’d done to their perfect day – Viktor had raised his voice, he _never_ raised his voice at Yuuri, oh _fuck_ , what a _mess_ – but it was coupled with the sadness he’d been putting off since the morning’s skate. _I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to give him up. I have to, though, I can’t continue knowing I’m keeping him away from what he was born to do. Selfish._

      Around them, people were picking out Christmas gifts and decorations, talking and laughing. There were families and couples and friends, people of all walks of life. Yuuri wanted to feel as light and carefree as they did. _And the longer I mope, the harder it will be to convince Viktor that I’m fine. Damn it, I can’t screw this day up anymore. I’ve got to keep going._

      Yuuri caught Viktor’s hand, squeezed lightly so Viktor would look at him, and pasted on what he hoped was a warm smile. “So your birthday is Christmas Day, isn’t it?”

      Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

      “What do you want for your gift?”

     Viktor shrugged and took a sip of the hot mulled wine he’d bought in a stall at the front of the market. “Well, in Russia we don’t really celebrate before the actual date. People don’t really celebrate on Christmas, either. Well – they do, it’s just they celebrate the Orthodox Christmas date, which isn’t always the same. And I lived with Yakov and Lilia for so long… they’re Jewish, so Christmas wasn’t really our thing.”

      Yuuri tried not to frown. _This is going to be more difficult than I thought… but I need to give him something. Just what will it be, though?_

      Viktor was still watching him, the crease between his brows starting to come back. “Uh, do you want some hot wine?”

      “Um,” Yuuri looked away, didn’t want Viktor to keep reading whatever it was that was showing there, “I try not to drink before competitions.”

     “Oh, right.” Viktor took another sip of his drink and gently squeezed Yuuri’s hand in his, let the conversation drop and die. He didn’t stop watching Yuuri, though. He was scrutinizing every shop they walked past, his eyes never still and bright not just from the lights around them but with something from within. _When Yuuri is looking for an answer, his eyes sparkle – even if he doesn’t say anything. He’s looking for something right now, like a dowsing rod. So I won’t ask him any questions, I’ll just watch him – and if he needs me, I’ll be right here._

     Viktor was watching Yuuri, not following his gaze, so he was surprised when he suddenly gasped and stopped short. He was even more perplexed when Yuuri crossed the walkway to lean against the window of a jewelry store, looking intently at something in the display there.

      “Vitya!” he said over his shoulder, a look of determination set on his face, “Let’s go inside this store.”

     Viktor followed numbly as Yuuri walked across the store with an air of confidence he didn’t often have off the ice and asked a saleslady if she’d show him a selection of rings. _Rings_.

      At once, Viktor’s mind was back at the Fukuoka International Airport, waiting for Yuuri’s flight to come in from Moscow. He was exhausted, having first been unable to sleep from being so sick with worry over Makkachin and then finding that even when Makkachin was safe, the bed was too big and too cold and too empty without Yuuri. And there were too many thoughts in his mind – he was thinking about Yuuri’s scores, about how he’d failed him in not making sure he had a backup plan in case of popped jumps. He’d failed him, too, in leaving him to face the free skate alone – never mind that it was the worst pain he’d felt in years, having to decide between Yuuri – the person who had him looking forward to the future for the first time in his life – and Makkachin, who had been his one constant companion since he was fourteen.

      Maybe it was that bone-tiredness, or the hours upon hours spent in an airplane seat, but the old healed break in his femur was aching, too, the way it sometimes did before a bad storm. He hadn't slept much without Yuuri, and he'd felt more helpless than he had in years. Even with Makkachin panting contentedly at his feet, Viktor had been on edge in that terminal. And then Makkachin ran to the glass, where Yuuri was coming off the plane. And the sleepless nights and old aches were gone, all in favor of his whole body humming _, Yuuri, my beloved, my own, Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri!_

      Yuuri had looked worse for wear, too, when his eyes met Viktor’s. Viktor already knew that the Rosetelecom Cup had been a mess after he left; Yakov and Yuri had called to tell him so. _And_ Yuri had mentioned something odd about Yuuri being overly affectionate with all the other competitors… but there was something more morose about the set of his mouth, the way his lovely eyes looked too dark, too shadowed. But then Yuuri was running, running through the airport, and Viktor was running, too, until they could be in each other’s arms.

      And among other things, Yuuri had said in the safety between their bodies, _Viktor, please be my coach until I retire_. And Viktor could only think of the way his career had stretched on for two decades, and the way he never wanted to leave Yuuri’s side. The way he wanted to face every obstacle with him, open every unopened door. So he’d smiled in spite of the way his heart felt like it was going to explode from emotion and tried joking, “You know, that almost sounds like a marriage proposal.” But it was no joke. And now they were in a jewelry store, and Yuuri was poring over a series of ring sets.

      Viktor watched from a little ways back, eyes wide, as Yuuri indicated the rings he wanted to see closer. He watched as Yuuri asked about sizing (this is when the saleslady looked over Yuuri’s shoulder to Viktor and squinted appraisingly at his gloved hands and Viktor’s stomach had done enough acrobatics to probably land in the next summer Olympics). His mouth was dry when Yuuri fished his wallet from his pocket, extracted a card, and slapped it into the leather folder holding the receipt for the rings. He wondered, a little errantly, if this was Yuuri’s personal card or the one the yakuza had provided for his expenses. When Yuuri said softly that he’d pay in installments, tapping one of the payment plans described on a laminated sheet on the counter, Viktor decided that Yuuri was paying with his personal card after all. It made him shiver.

      Yuuri looked, finally, at Viktor, his doe-eyes a little wild. “I thought I could use a kind of good luck charm.”

     Neither of them spoke when they left the shop, Yuuri’s purchases tucked into the pocket of his peacoat. At first, they didn’t hold hands, either, but Viktor’s hand kept brushing Yuuri’s out of habit (and the way they walked with their shoulders almost flush, just like at home) and Yuuri finally laced their fingers together with a small smile. Viktor was letting himself be lead, not wandering back through Fira de Santa Llúcia, but with Yuuri’s eyes sparkling again in their search for something else.

     Yuuri had never really had a lucky charm, an omamori. Omamori could be bought at shrines and temples all over Japan, but they were for common things – doing well in school, finding love, safety. They tied you to deities, let those deities know to bless you, or they tied you to your ancestors, who would protect their family line, and even such ambiguous things as strong emotions are seen to have protective and blessing properties, especially love and affection. Yuuri had never quite known what he would ask for, or from whom. The protection provided by omamori often gave comfort for the carrier, reassured them that they weren’t alone, that they’ve got someone looking out for them. Aid with his anxiety would be a natural thing to seek, but Yuuri was stubborn – he wanted to overcome his mental weaknesses on his own.

      The emotional aspect of omamori meant that many people used mementos or objects of sentimental value for them, either because it reminds them of a particular person or situation or emotion, or because they see some kind of link between that particular object and whatever they seek blessings for or protection against. And Yuuri had seen the rings in the window of that jewelry store and felt deep in his gut that this was exactly what he needed. This was what he’d been searching for, in more ways than one.

      At surface value, it was an omamori for the Final – gold for gold. But there was more. Yuuri was trying not to think about it, didn’t want to have to explain it to Viktor when it would destroy him that much more when it had to end. But the ring, whether he wanted to acknowledge it directly or not, was 縁 for his relationship with Viktor.

      The crowds were thinning as people were returning home or going to restaurants for dinner. Yuuri’s stomach felt like it was holding a massive koi fish, desperate to jump free. He knew his hands were shaking a little, even the one held tight by Viktor. They had one last stop, though. The Barcelona Cathedral was open to the public, so it was on unsteady legs that Yuuri led Viktor up the steps and through the heavy doors. A choir was rehearsing in the transept of the church, but they didn’t bat an eye at the men walking up the aisle. Everything felt a little too surreal, hearing a hymn in a language he didn’t speak, walking up an aisle hand-in-hand with the man he’d loved since he was a kid. Yuuri led Viktor diagonally across the front of the church and up the steps to the altar, where the light was cool and ethereal.

      There, Yuuri set down the bags he’d been carrying and turned to face Viktor, who set his bags down, too. Viktor still hadn’t said a thing since the jewelry store, but he was watching Yuuri with the most intensity he thought he’d ever felt.

      “Vitya,” Yuuri breathed, looking up through his eyelashes at the man he loved, silently asking.

      Viktor understood – of course he did, of _course_ he could read Yuuri’s mind like it was second nature. It made Yuuri’s chest ache and ache like he’d never ached before. But Viktor’s hand was extended toward him, palm down. Moving without letting himself focus on the possible repercussions, the ways this could go wrong, how this wasn’t what the plan had been but instead something so profound it was kind of staggering, really, Yuuri set his fingertips at the cuff of Viktor’s soft leather glove and gently peeled it off. He tried to ignore the small tremors of Viktor’s hand, still being held more or less steady and palm down. He couldn’t, though. He also couldn’t bring himself to stop, to back down when he’d come this far.

      Yuuri took a deep breath, willing it to steady him. He couldn’t meet Viktor’s eyes, though he knew he was watching him. He held Viktor’s hand steady with his left hand and with his right, Yuuri extracted the rings from his pocket. He was guessing, but thankfully both rings were more or less the same size. The one he shifted from his palm to his fingers was slightly smaller, as Viktor’s hands, while larger, were more slender than Yuuri’s. And then Yuuri was slipping the ring onto Viktor’s right hand third finger, the fit somehow turning out right and the gold glinting in the light of the church like a beacon. As he did so, he didn’t quite say a prayer, but he let his thoughts all gather around the love he had for Viktor – he’d never felt this way about anyone else and never wanted to feel this way about anyone else. And when their paths diverged and Viktor left him to return to his place as the figure skating world’s hero and legend, a part of Yuuri would go with him. But one day, _one_ day, maybe Viktor would return to him. Maybe he’d see that this wasn’t just a gesture, this wasn’t empty emotion.

      Yuuri had to clear his throat a little before speaking, still holding Viktor’s hand in both of his. “Thank you… for everything… up until now. Vitya, you – you’ve changed my life. I’ve been trying to be so many things, trying to please so many people. You’re the first person who has made me feel like I’m enough – you make me want to be more, not for other people, but for myself. Well, for _you_. And I – I couldn’t think of anything better to tell you that.”

      Viktor’s eyes were like aquamarine saucers, his lips half-parted and plush. His hand in Yuuri’s still trembled. It made everything that much more real. This was happening.

      “Um, tomorrow,” Yuuri said, biting his lip and breathing deep through his nose and letting go of Viktor’s hand. _I can’t fall apart here_ , “I’m going to try my hardest… For us. So… tell me something for luck,”

      Viktor took a deep breath, his whole chest rising and falling with it. Then, he did something Yuuri had only half-expected (mostly hoped) he would, and reached for Yuuri’s right hand, the one that still held the other ring.

      “Of course, Yuuri,” Viktor said, just a shade louder than a whisper and still steady and confident-sounding. He smiled, just the barest lifting of the corners of his lips, as he plucked the second ring from Yuuri’s hand and looked at him through his eyelashes. “I’ll say something you won’t even have to think about.”

      Yuuri raised his eyebrows, trying to understand. And then Viktor was holding his hand the way Yuuri had held his, and he was sliding the ring onto Yuuri’s third finger. _Does he mean it as a good luck charm only, like I’ve said? Or does he see this as something more?_ Yuuri watched the way the light caught the gold band on Viktor’s finger.

      “Tomorrow,” Viktor said, his voice still low and steady, “show me the skating that you can honestly say _you_ liked best. That’s all you need to do, pыбка. You’re so capable, you know? And following your instinct is the best way to a medal. I have complete faith in you, Yuuri.”

      Their eyes met, Yuuri’s slightly teary and Viktor’s showing an overwhelming amount of affection. Yuuri’s hand twitched in Viktor’s loose grasp. He didn’t know what to say; he was still afraid he was going to fall to pieces just at the enormity of what he’d just done. But he swallowed the rising panic and focused on the blue of Viktor’s eyes and let himself rock forward, just enough to rest their foreheads together. “I will. Thank you.”

      Viktor’s eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned infinitesimally closer, angling his face so their noses were against each other. Yuuri waited for a kiss, but it didn’t come, not right away. Somehow, it was more to have their breaths mingle, to be so close that Yuuri’s heart and Viktor’s were beating in tandem against his chest. He didn’t know which of them did close the distance, but the resulting kisses were so soft it could have been something of a dream, their mouths moving with a practiced harmony that was almost unfair. Yuuri wanted to get lost in it, wanted to drown in it, but it was Viktor again who withdrew to rest his lips instead against Yuuri’s forehead. They stayed like that for some time, the choir still singing its hymns and the night outside turning darker with the passing time.

      Yuuri never wanted to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to clog this section up, but I just wanted to address the passing of Denis Ten, Olympic and World medalist figure skater, the "Warrior of Kazakhstan". He was the inspiration for Otabek Altin, but more than that, he was a skater who changed the game for Kazakhstan. He brought inspiration and love to everyone around him, and he was an incredible skater. Denis was 25, and he didn't deserve to die in such a brutal way. Please keep his family and friends in your thoughts, if you can, and let's all try to be a little bit more loving to one another.
> 
> I'm so sorry it's been forever since the last update - on top of my laptop abruptly dying (it's back now, but it took a long time in the shop - and with the updates I don't have microsoft word anymore so anyway I'm trying not to think about that or I'll have a Real Breakdown), I was out of state and I just haven't had the chance to come back. It's been weighing heavily on me, because at one point I was updating twice a week. I think, from here on out, I'll only be updating once every week or every other week. I'm behind on writing chapters and I have some crazy life stuff happening, and I need to be sensible about the way I divide my time. That being said, I'm always around tumblr and I get all the notifications for here so if you have any questions or comments, I'll do my best to give you a speedy reply.
> 
> Lots to talk about this chapter!! I actually used several references while writing, and I want to share them with you guys.  
> [The ring as an omamori is something I came across here](http://spurisani.tumblr.com/post/154207813929/okay-i-fully-understand-everyones-excitement) (by spurisani on tumblr), and it's something I wholeheartedly support.  
> It was painfully important to me to use the correct location names while writing, too. We all know the YOI staff is absolutely spot-on when it comes to locations, and I think many of us have seen screencaps lined up with real landmarks. [There's a great article](http://www.crunchyroll.com/anime-feature/2016/12/10/feature-anime-vs-real-life-yuri-on-ice-part-2) that includes many of these, as well as some introspection into the Barcelona locations. Taliachan-san on tumblr also put together [a great post](http://taliachan-san.tumblr.com/post/154328561543/yuri-on-ice-episode-10-anime-vs-reality) doing the same thing.  
> If you're curious about the Gucci suits Viktor mentions to Yuuri, I suggest you google Harry Styles + suits because he's been doing a Gucci campaign and uhhhh can someone please draw our boys in some of those suits??  
> Some of you guys might be thinking "hey charm, what the fuck, why are you hurting my heart like this?" and I'd like to direct you to [this post](https://greencephalopod.tumblr.com/post/163287985322/episode-10-from-yuuris-pov), which has been a big inspiration to me! While it may not be something you hold with exactly, it's something very much in line with what I'm trying to convey with this AU :3c
> 
> As always, if you're looking for my own creations when it comes to this fic, I'd like to [direct you here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ⭐️
> 
> Now that you're up to your necks in meta, I'd just like to thank you guys for sticking with this story and continuing to read it all these months (or if you've just started - hello, welcome, thank u endlessly). Especially with my personal life becoming more and more tumultuous, this fic is something that keeps my feet on the ground and I'm so grateful for that. I've made acquaintances I call friends through this community, and I'm very grateful for them, too, for putting up with my prattling on at all hours over my love for this anime and these characters. I'm honored to have something of a place alongside them with my own story. Thanks for leaving feedback; it's always a bright point to my day that can bring a smile to my face when nothing else has. ❤️


	18. Be My Rest, Be My Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frightened by my feelings_  
>  _I only wanna be a relief_  
>  _No, I'm not a go-getter_  
>  _The demon had a spell on me_  
> ...  
>  _Nothing can be changed_  
>  _The past is still the past_
> 
>  
> 
> Impromptu dinner with friends. What could go wrong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Should've Known Better by Sufjan Stevens

      Yuuri and Viktor didn’t linger in the Barcelona Cathedral. The choir rehearsal was still going on; they hadn’t said anything about the foreigners on the steps, but to stay any longer felt something like intruding. And it didn’t really matter if the choir members were fine with company – neither Yuuri nor Viktor could forget that the Grand Prix Final started in the morning.

     Viktor gathered up some of the shopping bags all in one hand and threw his free arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. There was a big, blissful kind of smile on his face. The angle of his arm allowed him to just catch his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, and Yuuri raised his face to look at Viktor in askance.

      “It’s nothing, pыбка,” Viktor said, voice just above a whisper and still playing with Yuuri’s hair as they walked through the church, “I just love you.”

     Yuuri shivered, but he couldn’t find his voice to tell Viktor he loved him, too. He had his arm around Viktor’s waist, though, holding him close. Viktor didn’t say anything, didn’t make a scene out of not hearing confirmation of Yuuri’s love. He kept carding his fingers through Yuuri’s hair.

      When they were back in the chilly night, walking toward the brightest lights denoting Fira de Santa Llúcia, Viktor bumped his hip a little into Yuuri’s. “I’m hungry, darling. What do you think? Let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

      Yuuri felt like he was drowning in emotions he didn’t know how to express, but this was still meant to be a perfect day, and nothing would be helped by shutting down now. So he gave Viktor the warmest smile he could muster and bumped his hip in return. “Alright, любовь моя,”

      And if he’d thought Viktor was luminous before, with neon lights reflecting off his platinum hair and pale skin, Yuuri found him tenfold more so with the smile that spread across his face.

 

      There was a small, neat looking restaurant halfway between Passeig de Gràcia and the hotel hosting the skaters. This was where Viktor was leading Yuuri. He expected they’d cross paths with some of the other skaters – after all, the Grand Prix Final was an international event, and it wasn’t just those competing who had turned out, but many of their rinkmates and friends as well. What he wasn’t expecting was to hear a woman’s shriek and look up to see Mari Katsuki and Minako Okukuwa. Yuuri stiffened minutely against Viktor, but he didn’t stop in his tracks.

      “Oh, Minako-sensei, Mari-neechan, you’re here,” he called out, his voice light and even.

      The women didn’t skip a beat in rushing over and grabbing Yuuri by the shoulders, effectively pulling him away from Viktor. “Yuuri! We need a favor!” Minako said, looking somewhat crazed. Viktor vaguely remembered Yuuri complaining about Minako always asking him for the room numbers of other skaters and raised his eyebrows preemptively. _What kind of favor does she want from him and not me?_

      “W-what is it?” Yuuri asked, looking startled as he untangled himself from his sister and ballet instructor. Viktor put his arm back around Yuuri’s shoulder, making sure Mari and Minako saw him. _I wonder if they’ll believe me if I make an ‘I’m his coach and you can’t stress him out before competition’ scene. Well, if Yuuri needs me to, that is._

      “Yurio and the skater from Kazakhstan are in there having tea!” Mari said, speaking English for Viktor’s benefit and pointing emphatically toward the restaurant. Yuuri raised his eyebrow.

      “So? Yurio and Otabek are the youngest competitors,” Yuuri looked to Viktor there for confirmation; Viktor nodded. He was pretty sure the Kazakh was younger than the loud Canadian, remembering how big a deal it had been for a seventeen-year-old to end up on the podium with him at World’s. Yuuri continued, “It kinda makes sense that they would seek each other out, don’t you think?”

      “Never mind that, Yuuri,” Minako interrupted. “You and Viktor should invite them both to dinner.”

      “ _What_?” Viktor asked at the same time as Yuuri.

      Mari was nodding. “Come on, Yuuri! We didn’t come all the way here just to hang out with you and Nikiforov. We want to meet the other skaters!”

      “Mari-neechan, they’re _teenagers_ ,” Yuuri argued, slipping out from under Viktor’s arm to properly put a hand on his hip. “ _You’re_ older than Vitya. And _Minako_ -sensei –”

      “Hey!” Minako squawked, cutting Yuuri off. “Don’t be rude, Yuuri, we _are_ here to support you,”

      Yuuri made a face and abruptly switched to Japanese to address his sister. “Mari-neechan, I didn’t even know you were coming to Barcelona.”

      “Of course I came, Yuuri,” Mari responded in kind, rolling her eyes.

      “How did you afford the plane ticket?” Yuuri was frowning now, not in an irritated way so much as confused.

      Mari smirked. “You’re not the only one in the ninkyō dantai,”

      Viktor perked up at that; he’d been letting Minako go on about Christophe (which was amusing if not a little annoying) to him while Yuuri and Mari went back and forth in Japanese, but he recognized that name. Yuuri sighed and stepped back to press his back against Viktor for stability, though he didn’t seem anxious or upset, just suddenly very tired.

      “Masihide-san?”

      Mari squared her shoulders in a proud way (which would have been sort of funny to Viktor if this was a different situation, as it looked like Mari was wearing the bulky old coat he’d seen Yuuri wear before he lost weight, and it had a comical effect on her frame). She fished a pack of expensive cigarettes from the pocket of the coat and held them up, and though she still spoke in Japanese, Viktor understood when she said, “ _This_ was Masihide-san. The plane was Shiba-san.”

      “Ugh, you’ve got everyone in your pocket,” Yuuri grumbled, switching back to English and really speaking loud enough for only Viktor to hear.

      Viktor squeezed his shoulders in response, though the whole exchange was mostly lost on him. Masihide? Shiba? Who _were_ these people? He’d more or less known Mari was a part of the ninkyō dantai from the way she’d interrogated him on and off about his exact intentions with Yuuri since May – but that didn’t answer the question. Did these people know Viktor was bratva? Had they spent Mari truly to cheer Yuuri on, or was there some ulterior motive?

      Yuuri was speaking English, though he was addressing Mari again. “So you want us to invite the whole bracket of skaters to dinner? So you can harass them with questions about their personal lives?”

      Mari shrugged, her smirk becoming more of a smile, something soft that reminded Viktor of Hiroko. Minako was nodding vehemently. “Yes, please!”

      Yuuri sighed and leaned his head back to look at Viktor, who still stood with his chest against Yuuri’s back. “What do you think, Vitya?”

      Viktor studied Yuuri’s pretty eyes, the dust of freckles that were barely visible when Yuuri was wearing his glasses. Ideally, they’d go back to their room and screw around, eat a dinner of room service, and fall asleep with only each other to worry about – but that was just a pipe dream, and given that the Final was set to start in the morning, there wouldn’t be any real  _screwing around_ one way or another. Viktor was a sociable person; he always loved to meet people and spend time getting to know acquaintances. Yuuri had never struck him as that kind of person, though, and he didn’t want to force his boyfriend – _no, he’s my_ fiancé _now_ – into an uncomfortable situation. But Yuuri looked calm with his lips half-parted and cheeks pink from the cold, and he was breathing evenly. So who was Viktor to say no?

      “It’s fine with me, любовь моя. I assume Minako wants to see Christophe –” (Minako gave an affirmative squeak that just wasn’t _befit_ of a woman who was old enough to be Chris’ mother) “So I’ll text him. I can also text Phichit?”

      Yuuri was moving away from Viktor to fish his phone from his pocket, and Viktor had to try not to pout at the space between them. Yuuri smiled at him, looking the epitome of soft, and said, “That’s fine, then, Vitya. I’ll talk to Yurio – I know he’s been dodging your texts (oh, don’t pout, darling, it’s true!) so he may be more receptive to me. And anyway, he’s fifteen; I can’t imagine he’d turn down a free meal.”

      Viktor was going to give Yuuri a kiss just for being so thoughtful and smart, but he remembered their audience at the last moment. He bit his tongue to keep from sighing and instead raised his eyebrows over Yuuri’s head at Mari. “So, how long have you been spying on Yurio and the Kazakh skater?”

      Mari narrowed her eyes and pushed her shoulders back, but there was only caution in her voice – no venom – when she replied, “I wasn’t spying; Minako just happened to notice him when we were walking past. And anyway, he’s a kid, shouldn’t you be more concerned with the company he keeps?”

      Viktor shrugged, feeling a flicker of shame. Yes, he probably _should_ be keeping a better eye on Yulia’s baby boy, but there were other factors – first, Yuri would raise hell if he thought Viktor was worried about him; second, Yakov probably had sixes or even bratoks trailing Yuri, anyway, making sure he didn’t wander into harm’s way; third, Viktor had been quite preoccupied with the love of his life, to whom he was recently engaged. He was trying to figure out how to explain this to Mari when Yuuri turned back to him and tapped the forgotten phone in Viktor’s hands.

      “I went ahead and texted Phichit; he’ll be here in ten. I’m waiting on a response from Yurio, but he’s at least opened the text. Have you texted Chris?”

      Viktor held Mari’s gaze a little longer, swearing under his breath. “No, sorry, pыбка, I’m doing that now.”

      Yuuri moved his hand to squeeze Viktor’s arm and smile up at him again. “Okay, then. I wonder what Minako will do if he walks in with Luca…” the last was said soft enough for only Viktor to hear; he snorted in an undignified way. It made him happy to see the light in Yuuri’s eyes – he’d been acting odd all day, but now he seemed more like himself, or maybe just a little more smiley than usual.

 

      Twenty minutes later, they were all seated around a large square table inside the restaurant. It was Yuuri and Viktor on one end; Otabek next to Viktor and Yuri next to him on the next side; Mari next to Yuri and across from Viktor, with Minako between Mari and Christophe; Chris and Phichit on the last side with Phichit next to Yuuri.

      Yuri was making faces at Viktor and Chris (who were trading lewd jokes in French mixed with questions after each other’s respective pets), but was surprisingly docile toward Mari. Mari, too, was occupied with getting to know Phichit, who she had heard plenty of stories of from Yuuri but never met. Minako was all but drooling over Chris from across the table, and he wasn’t helping matters by sending suggestive winks her way every few minutes. Otabek was quiet but polite, and he kept ducking his head to say things in Yuri’s ear, though he didn’t make an effort to converse with anyone else. Yuuri was feeling his nerves gather a little, but he tried to ignore them the best he could. It wasn’t bad at all, seeing everyone – after all, these were his friends off the ice, no matter that on the ice they’d all be fighting their hardest to win the Final.

      Viktor was sitting so close to Yuuri that their thighs were flush, but Yuuri didn’t mind. The whole situation still felt a little surreal, like a dream that was just too odd to relax into, and Viktor was a solid, steady warmth keeping him grounded. The fact that Mari and Minako were beside themselves at being surrounded by so many international skaters added to the surrealism; to Yuuri, these were simply his friends. To recognize _them_ as world-famous athletes would mean recognizing _himself_ as one, and that always gave him a stress headache.

      “You guys are way too excited about this,” Yuuri said in an undertone in Japanese, making a downward motion with his hands as if that alone would placate them.

      Minako had happy tears smearing her usually immaculate mascara and was blushing madly – Chris had just given her a slightly confused smile, and it set the waterworks going. “I’m so happy I could die,” she said. “How much am I going to have to pay you…?”

      Mari, too, looked all too pleased to be sitting next to Yuri, who was glaring over at Viktor and Yuuri. Yuri huffed loudly before saying, “I can’t believe I let you convince me to join this stupid get-together,”

      Yuuri laughed. It had been a long day for him, emotionally and physically, but he was fond of the Russian Punk and his prickly attitude. Viktor answered for Yuuri, though, looking between Yuri and Otabek with a shrug. He spoke Russian as a kind of olive branch to the kid, who hadn’t started learning English until his junior career and sometimes grew frustrated simply because he was tired of speaking a language that was a chore, not second hat, to him. “Это бесплатная еда,”

      Otabek tilted his head a little, considering this, before nodding at Yuri. “Я не против.”

      Yuri sighed loudly but let himself be engaged in a conversation with Mari after that.

      And once they all had drinks, the mood became more relaxed. Viktor, Minako, Mari, and Chris were drinking – Chris claiming that a single glass of white wine wouldn’t put him off his top performance, no matter what Josef liked to tell him – and the skaters were drinking water and light fruit seltzers. Maybe Chris was feeling confident enough to drink, but they were wary (not to mention that Yuri was underage). Viktor went on to order a huge selection of food from the menu, most of it complying with the diets of all the skaters (and wagging his eyebrows at Phichit as he added a shrimp dish to the order, silently reminding him of their dinner in Beijing – which Yuuri found amusing mostly because he had figured Viktor would be too drunk to remember all of that).

      The mood at the table was even more comfortable once all that food arrived. Minako had stopped bursting into tears and was instead doing her best to get good and tipsy (which could be a feat, considering she could hold her own drinking with the older kyodai of Yamamoto’s ninkyō dantai). They were all passing dishes between one another, making sure Phichit had a chance to document each one for his food Instagram account, as well as get candids of all of them together for his main Instagram account. From what Yuuri could overhear, Yuri was trying to describe the merits of his cat to anyone who would listen.

      “This is my girl, Potya!” he said proudly, shoving his phone under Otabek’s nose.

      Otabek frowned slightly, putting his hand on Yuri’s wrist to move the phone to a place where he wouldn’t go cross-eyed trying to look at it. “Your cat is named… Pyotr?”

      Yuri had a small, uncharacteristically sweet smile like the one he’d worn when he gave Yuuri katsudon priozkhi in Moscow, and he was flipping through pictures on the screen for Otabek. “No, even _better_. It’s short for Puma-Tiger-Scorpion.”

      “Puma-Tiger-Scorpion?”

      “What?” Yuri demanded, his smile quickly replaced by a scowl. “Listen, мудак, she has the coolest name ever--”

      Otabek cut him off with a half-smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Yeah, for sure, Yuri. It’s badass.”

      The smile returned to Yuri’s face, and Yuuri smiled, too. _He deserves a friend closer to his age than me and Viktor._

      Viktor was halfway through his second mug of beer and kept squeezing Yuuri’s thigh under the table, pointedly looking at the ring on his right hand, and smiling so wide Yuuri thought he could outshine the sun. Sure, his stomach still flipped wildly when he thought about the ring that he, too, was wearing, and the way he didn’t know exactly what Viktor thought of the whole situation… but he couldn’t worry about that. All that mattered right now was making tonight perfect. When would there be another situation like this, with so many of them together and happy?

      “How are you doing, рыбка?” Viktor asked, tilting his head as he leaned into Yuuri so his hair flopped over his eyes. It was so endearing, so silly and casual, and it made Yuuri’s heart squeeze in his chest. He smiled, though, and nudged Viktor’s shoulder with his own.

      “I’m good, Vitya, are you?” He told himself that he wasn’t going to fix Viktor’s hair, not in front of their contemporaries in the middle of a busy restaurant, but his hands were itching a little with the need to card through Viktor’s hair, either to put it back in place or muss it a little more.

      Viktor must have noticed the way Yuuri’s eyes lingered on his lips, because his sweet expression became a teasing smirk. He licked his lips and said, “I’ve _really_ never been better,”

      Yuuri bit his lip, feeling the low tone Viktor had used go straight below his belt. _I wish we were somewhere else, I wish we were alone, I wish it wasn’t the Final tomorrow, I wish_ – he looked up to see Phichit studying him, his dark eyes bright with some spark of curiosity.

      “Well?” Phichit said, blinking in a way that seemed to show off his impeccably winged eyeliner.

      “What?”

      “Are you guys going to ask _me_ how my night is going?”

      “ _Phichit_!” Yuuri said, too relieved that he hadn’t said something about Yuuri and Viktor exchanging bedroom eyes in the middle of dinner to really get fussy at his best friend. He sighed, fighting a smile at Phichit’s raised, waiting eyebrow. “Fine, then. _How are you doing_ , Peach?”

      Phichit smiled and angled his phone around for a selfie. “I’m fantastic, man! It’s so good to see everyone,”

      Yuuri smiled obligingly for the selfie before settling back in his seat and glancing at Viktor, who had been watching the exchange with a soft smile. “Yeah, definitely. I mean, it’s kind of strange, though, isn’t it? For all of us to gather before the Final like this…”

      Chris batted his eyelashes at Yuuri from across the table. “You invited us though, didn’t you? So there’s _something_ that intrigues you…”

      Viktor rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, Chris, _vous guignol_ ,”

      Chris gasped theatrically at that, and Viktor winked at Yuuri, looking pleased with himself as he went to take a deep draught of his beer. Yuuri smiled back at him before looking over at Chris.

      “I mean, at last year’s Final I was by myself the whole time, even at the banquet,” Yuuri smile widened, thinking about it – it wasn’t a particularly _nice_ thing, remembering being alone, but considering he was now surrounded by people, it felt like a kind of kick to his anxiety’s figurative ass. And he had Viktor sitting flush against him, too… “Like, I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to Viktor!”

      Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. Viktor all but spat out his mouthful of beer, and Yuri began shouting in rapid-fire Russian, Otabek closing a hand around his wrist to keep him seated. Chris had staggered in his seat and caught himself on Minako’s arm, making her turn bright red again. Phichit, who hadn’t been at the Final, had his eyebrows raised expectantly. All eyes, though, were on Yuuri, and his stomach turned dangerously.

      “You… you don’t remember?” Viktor said weakly, eyes wide. There was beer dripping from his lower lip, and he blotted it away after a moment with a shaking hand.

      “What?” Yuuri asked, holding his glass of water close to his chest like it was a defense mechanism. Yuri’s face was bright red, but Otabek had apparently convinced him to stop shouting. Yuuri didn’t think he liked the sudden quiet, though.

      Chris leaned across Phichit and looked at Yuuri earnestly through his eyelashes. His face was deceptively impassive. In a steady, clear voice, he said, “Yuuri, you got drunk on champagne and started dancing.”

      Yuuri felt like a rug had been pulled from under his feet. _What? That can’t be right, Chris has got something wrong. Maybe I misheard him._

      Chris’ eyebrows smushed together a little, correctly interpreting Yuuri’s stunned silence. “Um, everyone saw, Yuuri…”

_This can’t be true, that can’t have happened, oh my god, oh my god. Everyone? Oh, fuck – it was the banquet, that means coaches… officials… sponsors… oh my god._

      Yuri’s face was screwed into a scowl. “It was _disgusting_ ,” he snapped. Mari was looking between both Yuris, looking as rattled as Yuuri remembered seeing her. But Yuri wasn’t done. He sniffed and stuck his nose up. “I got… _dragged_ into… a dance-off. It was humiliating.”

      Viktor exchanged a glance with Chris over Yuuri’s head at that, but Yuuri didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder about it.

      “A dance-off?” he wheezed, feeling cold sweat on his brow. So _not only_ had he danced drunkenly in front of the cream of the skating world, but he’d _dragged others down with him_? “I had a dance-off with Yurio?”

      Chris was back to batting his eyelashes. “Viktor and me, too – but we did _mine_ half-naked on a pole.”

 _Naked? Naked. I got –? I got_ naked _on a_ pole _with_ Chris _? In front of_ sponsors _? At an_ internationally sanctioned event _? No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening._ Phichit wolf-whistling pulled Yuuri somewhat out of his mind. But Yuuri couldn’t catch his breath; his heart was beating so fast. He held his face in his hands, but couldn’t get a handle on his rapidly spiraling thoughts.

      “I… I start going off the rails when I drink, just like my… Kyushu born-and-bred dad,” Yuuri grit out. It was that drunken courage that had landed to the connection with Yamamoto and the ninkyō dantai, after all. Yuuri dared a glance upward right into Mari’s eyes. She had eyes like Toshiya’s, and right now they were wide with shock. But she nodded minutely, as if telling him to continue – it was almost like talking solely to her, and he could do that. He’d always been able to talk to Mari. So he sucked in another deep breath and said, “I’ve been trying to lay off and not drink like I did in college – I used to get so plastered that I would black out and only learn about the night before from Phichit or... or _worse_ , pictures. Sometimes from stories around campus. It never crossed my mind that I might’ve blacked out at the banquet of all places; I must’ve mentally blocked what I remembered out. But… ugh, _fuck_ , I think some of it’s coming back to me.”

      Viktor was very still next to Yuuri. He ran a hand through his hair, though, and attempted to muster a smile at Yuuri. “Well, the banquet is always a huge social event, right? And you hadn’t been to a Final before, so you didn’t know anyone, and I guess you just drank instead of mingled.”

      Phichit was wearing a look of mingled shock and pride. “How much did he drink?”

      Chris was examining his cuticles, but he answered without hesitation. “Sixteen flutes of champagne in pretty close order, I think it was.”

      “Wow, Yuuri! That’s like a record for you, isn’t it? Wait, _no_ , do you remember the big frat party when I was eighteen and you were playing strip-beer pong with those football players?”

      Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut. It sounded like Viktor was spitting out a mouthful of beer again. “Phichit, _please_ stop talking.”

      “Okay but where was your coach?” Minako asked, sounding irritated but not upset. Yuuri opened his eyes and looked across the table. She had her eyes narrowed, but her mouth was screwed up in a worried way.

      “ _Please_ , Celestino’s awful at holding his liquor,” Phichit sighed, just as Chris said, “Josef told me later that Celestino only stayed long enough to talk to some sponsors and then took a bottle of Prosecco up to his room, so he probably missed the show.”

      Viktor brushed his fingers over the top of Yuuri’s thigh, not in a sensual way but a quiet reminder that he was still there. “I, ah, have pictures? If you’re interested, of course. And videos of… what happened.”

      The air left Yuuri’s lungs again. It had been a year – a whole _fucking year_ – and this whole time _Viktor Nikiforov_ had been walking around with footage of Yuuri dancing drunk around the Final Banquet in Sochi?

      Chris was pulling his phone out of his pocket, too, and unlocking it. “I do, too,”

      “Ooh,” Phichit said, plucking the phone from Chris and giving the photo folder a cursory scan, “Oh my _god_ , Yuuri, this is… _wow_.”

      Minako and Mari had all but knocked their chairs over in their haste to scramble over to Chris and Phichit’s side of the table. “ _I wanna see_!” they said in unison. On Yuuri’s other side, Viktor had his phone out and Otabek was leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen, actually looking like he might be impressed, if that was possible. From the corner of Yuuri’s eye, he could see that sweet, radiant smile on Viktor’s face as he swiped through the pictures, saying, “Isn’t he amazing?”

      “Don’t look!” Yuuri begged, but Mari and Minako were already crowded around Phichit and Chris’ phone, and Yuri was draping himself over Otabek’s shoulder and shoving his own phone in front of him with more pictures of that night. Yuuri had his hands out, flapping a little because he wasn’t above snatching the phones away but he really didn’t want to make even more of a scene.

      It was Chris who raised his head and looked at Yuuri. His eyes went to Yuuri’s flapping hands and the gold ring on his finger, and Chris’ eyes narrowed a little as they dragged over to Viktor. Yuuri wasn’t really paying attention; it was hard to hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears, but it sounded like on his left Phichit was starting to recount a story from their college pole-dancing class to Mari and Minako. Of course, Minako knew plenty of stories about those classes by now, but Phichit definitely liked to put a theatric twist on them.

      “Hey, you two, what’s with the rings?” Chris asked. Yuuri’s eyes snapped back to Chris’ whose face was propped casually on his hand, a shit-eating grin on his lips. _Oh, no._

      “What? Rings?” Mari asked, looking up from the phone Phichit was still holding and giving Chris a side-eye.

      Minako was more astute, looking not to Chris but to Yuuri and narrowing her eyes once again. “I don’t remember you wearing that.”

      Yuuri’s heart was doing its best to freeze over; he could feel cold sweat on his temples as he hurriedly covered the ring. _Viktor and I haven’t even defined this, what can I say?_ _‘Oh, this is an_ en _for my relationship with Viktor, so that when he leaves me to return to skating he won’t forget me. This is my wish for the Final to not suck because it’ll be the last thing I skate.’ Fuck, no one except Mari and Minako even know what a goddamn omamori is_. He stuttered, “Uh, th-this is a, uh…”

      Viktor was sitting a little straighter in his chair, and he dropped his phone to the table in his haste to brandish the matching ring on his third finger, unaware of the way Yuuri was doing his best to disappear on the spot. “They’re a pair!” he said, holding his hand at different angles so everyone could see it.

      Yuuri’s heart was in his throat, but he moved his shaking hands so that his ring could be seen, too. He looked around at his friends and family at the table, trying to read their faces for something other than surprise. Phichit’s eyebrows were slowly trying to make their way into his hairline. _Oh no_ , Yuuri thought. He’d seen a similar look on Phichit’s face before…

      And then Phichit was applauding wildly and crowing, “ _Yu-u-uri_! And Viktor! Congrats on your _marriage_!”

      “Wait, no!” Yuuri started, feeling Viktor stop brandishing his hand around next to him

      Phichit was already on his feet and turning to face the other patrons of the restaurant. “Everyone!” he called, though they were in Barcelona and it was likely that only a percentage of the restaurant would be able to understand him, “My best friend just got married!”

      When Phichit resumed his clapping, the restaurant quickly followed suit – even if they hadn’t all understood his announcement, they apparently didn’t mind joining in the celebration. The thing was, though, that Yuuri didn’t think they should be celebrating at all. He got to his feet, trying to talk over the congratulations.

      “N-no, this is, um – just wait, this is…” _how do you explain something that’s basically a part of Japanese religion to a bunch of Spaniards who may not even speak English?_ All the other skaters were applauding and smiling, too, ignoring Yuuri’s protests. Only Yuri and Mari looked upset and confused, respectively. “It’s to thank him for everything he’s done for me, the help and the… the other things…”

      “Yeah, don’t get the wrong idea,” Viktor cut in, and the wave of relief that washed over Yuuri was so strong that he staggered, setting his hand on Viktor’s shoulder for balance. “This is an _engagement_ ring. We’ll get _married_ once he wins the gold.”

 _We’ll what?_ “What?”

      Viktor looked at Yuuri, batting his eyelashes. “Right, darling?”

      “V- _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri breathed. For a moment, he allowed himself to focus only on Viktor. He was staring up at him, his eyes like chips of aquamarine and smiling like Yuuri was the only one there. _Does he mean it? He can’t be serious; he can’t_ really _want to marry me. We’ve never even talked about it…_ but the smile on Viktor’s lips was growing, and there was that glint in his eye that Yuuri recognized from seeing it in hundreds or thousands of pictures of Viktor on the podium. _So maybe he means it; he’s serious… when I win gold, he’ll marry me. Viktor wants to marry me._

      Yuuri knew better than to let himself get lost in Viktor’s eyes – not here, not right now – and made himself look away to again read the faces around the table. Mari looked like someone had smacked her in the face; Minako was in tears. Yuri, who hadn’t once smiled during the whole mess of Phichit announcing the nonexistent marriage, was scowling – but now Otabek had a frown on his face, too.

      “When he wins…” he repeated.

      “A gold medal,” Phichit finished, his voice having gone quite soft as he gave Yuuri a considering glance.

      Chris was examining his cuticles again, but his whole demeanor seemed abruptly sobered. “Hmm.”

      All at once, the reality of the situation came back to Yuuri. Forget the mortifying revelation about the Sochi banquet, forget having the rings exposed – the Final began in the morning, and when they walked into the rink, friendships wouldn’t matter. They would all be skating for gold, no matter if Yuuri had a marriage to apparently be won, too, or not.

      Yuuri put his hands up in a kind of surrender. “Um, well,”

      “Wait a minute!” someone shouted, sharply drawing all their attention. JJ was standing about a meter from the table, his girlfriend draped over one side. JJ jabbed his forefinger toward Yuuri and Viktor. “ _I’ll_ be the one who wins gold and gets married, of course!”

      His girlfriend – his _fiancée_ – smiled and patted JJ’s chest. Sure enough, there was a big rock of a diamond on her finger. “That’s right, it’ll _definitely_ be JJ,”

      JJ’s smirk softened for a second when she spoke, and he rubbed his neck in a way that would’ve looked sheepish if it wasn’t a habit done to show off the tattoo on his inner bicep. “Sorry we can’t congratulate you on your future marriage,” he said to Yuuri and Viktor.

      Chris wasn’t facing JJ, and he made what can only be a stink face. He looked over at Viktor and started to say, “ _Quel_ âge a-t-il?” but stopped halfway through, most likely realizing that as a Canadian (especially one named _Jean-Jacques_ ), JJ probably had some knowledge of French. Viktor raised his eyebrows in answer though, his face otherwise blank. It seemed they were all thinking the same thing.

      “Well, we have an early start tomorrow,” Chris announced, turning finally to look at JJ with an obviously plastic smile. JJ nodded, not catching the hint and instead continuing to posture with his fiancée at the end of the table. Minako started making small talk with them, probably in an effort to be polite.

      “Right, I’m going to find our waiter,” Viktor said, catching Yuuri’s hand and giving it a squeeze before slipping away into the restaurant.

      Yuuri looked around; it appeared that Yuri was now directing his anger toward JJ, and was muttering in rapid-fire Russian under his breath to Otabek, who was only nodding along, face impassive aside from occasional quirks of his lips. Phichit grabbed Chris by the wrist and pulled him along as he sidled over to Yuuri.

      “Okay, so I have a question,” Phichit began, and Yuuri immediately tried to emotionally prepare himself for the myriad of potential questions Phichit might spring on him. Chris looked politely interested, watching Yuuri, too. So Yuuri nodded, prompting his best friend to continue.

      “You told me you hadn’t shown Viktor your tattoo over the summer, and when I asked you a couple months ago, you said you finally had and he was surprised about it,”

      Yuuri bit his lip. This was true; Viktor hadn’t seen his tattoo before Beijing, right? “What’s the question?”

      “If Chris was half-naked and you guys were pole-dancing, how did Viktor not see your tattoo?”

      “I can actually answer that,” Chris said, nodding. “Yuuri _did_ strip down – don’t look so shocked, Yuuri, _mon cher_ , you have an absolutely lovely physique, as I’ve been telling you for years – but I saw the top of your chest tattoo when you started unbuttoning your shirt and convinced you to keep that garment on.”

      Yuuri blinked. “So I _didn’t_ show my tattoo to the whole of the banquet?”

      Chris smiled n a cheeky way, his hazel eyes twinkling. “No, but not for lack of trying.”

      Yuuri’s cheeks were pink, he could tell, but he was so relieved that he felt a touch dizzy. There was something nagging him about Chris’ explanation, though, something that made him cautious. “Thank you, Chris. But… how did you know not to let me show my tattoo?”

      Chris shrugged. “It was kind of a mental autopilot situation. I just figured you probably didn’t want to show off your tattoo, like Viktor never has. He’s always had them airbrushed out of photos, right?” Yuuri nodded, considering this. It was true; though Viktor’s tattoos looked innocent enough to the uninformed eye, he’d never been pictured with them exposed – which was why seeing them when he arrived in Japan had been such a shock to Yuuri. But did Chris know what those tattoos meant? Did he know what _Yuuri’s_ meant? Chris answered that himself, though.

      “I never pictured you to be someone with tattoos, Yuuri,” Chris said, looking between him and Phichit, his voice still an unbothered velvet purr. “Doesn’t your family own a hot springs? I thought those didn’t allow tattoos. Your parents must have been _livid_ when you came home from university in America with a tattoo.”

 _He thinks my tattoo is American. He doesn’t have a clue_. “Oh, yeah,” Yuuri chuckled weakly, “they didn’t even see it until I finally went home in the spring. I think they took it okay, though.”

      Phichit smiled; though he knew the tattoo was something Yuuri had already had before moving to Detroit, he didn’t know, either, what the tattoo represented for Yuuri and he’d never asked. _God, imagine if pictures had been leaked of me naked on a pole and showing off yakuza tattoos. I’d have been excommunicated from the skating world before I’d even decided to retire, fuck,_ Yuuri thought. _Or even worse, I’d have been crucified by Yamamoto and Fukuyama… oh, god, how am I going to explain this to them? Wait – how do I still have sponsors, how have the officials not said anything? Oh my god, what a mess._

      Viktor came striding back to the table a moment later, smiling his big press smile at everyone, not the heart. “Well, we better call it a night. See you all in the morning!”

      The skaters were quick to disperse, gathering their things and walking in a clump toward the hotel, leaving JJ and his fiancée behind, looking shocked.

      “Hey, wait, I was just joking around,” he called after them, apparently finally coming to realize that he’d come off as abrasive with his entrance.

      Yuuri thought he heard Otabek say something to JJ, but he didn’t feel like sticking around. It was already relatively late in the day, and though Yuuri was a night owl, the day had been long and he was ready to be alone to decompress. Well, alone except for Viktor. Viktor, who was holding his hand and half the bags of purchases from their earlier shop, and who was smiling without seeming to know it.

      They didn’t speak much, after saying goodnight in the hotel lobby and elevator to the other skaters. Minako and Mari were at a different hotel, not having reserved rooms at the official hotel in effort to save some money, but they’d parted ways on the street with a significant look from both women to Yuuri. Viktor didn’t seem to mind Yuuri’s silence; he was still smiling to himself, pink-cheeked from the chilly night and humming random strains that Yuuri recognized as parts of _Stammi Vicino_.

      Once inside their hotel room, Viktor took the shopping bags from Yuuri and placed them carelessly by his luggage. Yuuri kicked his shoes off and trailed after Viktor, feeling the nerves he’d been fighting all day start to come bubbling up again. He wanted to ask about what exactly had happened at the banquet, wanted exact details and the full truth, but was afraid to. If it was bad – which, Yuuri thought, there was no real way for any of it to be good when he’d gotten black out drunk in front of half his sponsors and the people who judged his skating and most of his peers – he knew it would affect his mood going into the Final.

      So instead, Yuuri said nothing. He watched Viktor toe out of his shoes and shrug out of his jacket, draping it over one of the chairs by the small table by the kitchenette. It was when Viktor had his Yves Saint Laurent sweater off and almost on its hanger when he realized that Yuuri was still hovering near the door.

      “Oh, pыбка,” was all he had to say for Yuuri to feel tears building like a sigh in his chest.

      Viktor crossed the room and unbuttoned Yuuri’s peacoat for him, gently pushed it off his shoulders and the sleeves from Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri let Viktor take his coat and, when the coat joined Viktor’s on the back of the chair, let him take his hand, too, and lead him to the bed. Viktor sat down and scooted to make space for Yuuri at the edge of the bed. _He’s in an undershirt and unbuttoned slacks, his hair is standing up, and he still looks so pretty I could die right here_ , Yuuri thought, numbly sitting on the bed. Viktor ran his thumb over the back of Yuuri’s hand, soothing him before he’d even said what he was feeling.

      “You’re anxious about the Final,” Viktor said, not questioning but his voice still lifting at the end, searching for confirmation.

      “I’m –” Yuuri hesitated. _It’s so much more than that. I feel like I’ve lost a whole chunk of who I am, and you’re still here in front of me. I want to marry you and I want to be yours forever but I just don’t know how. I want to be perfect and I’m flawed. I feel like I’ve tricked you into being a part of my life. And of course I’m anxious, I’m terrified. I don’t want to lose you._ He couldn’t say all that, though, he couldn’t make Viktor worry like that. So he tried a smile, hating that there was probably no missing the tears in his eyes now, and said, “I just wanted today to be perfect, and I think I messed up.”

      A crease appeared between Viktor’s eyebrows. “What do you mean? Today was wonderful. It was _wonderful_.”

      Yuuri sighed, and a tear fell on his cheek. He tried to keep his voice steady, though. “I can’t believe I did that.”

      Viktor was still frowning. “You mean the Sochi banquet?”

      Yuuri nodded and used the heel of his hand to wipe tears from his cheeks. To his surprise, Viktor breathed a laugh and brought the hand he still held to his mouth to kiss, right on the knuckle over the new gold ring. “I’m so glad you did, though, Yuuri.”

      Yuuri frowned, his stomach in knots. _He thinks I’m someone I’m not, he thinks I’m that drunk kid from the banquet, and I’ll keep letting him down_. “Why?”

      Viktor smiled and kissed Yuuri’s hand again, a little more openly so Yuuri could feel the heat of his mouth. “You threw your arms around my neck and pushed your hips into me and asked me to be your coach,” he began, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips.

      Yuuri thought he could physically feel his body turn to ice. “I did _what_?”

      “You – Yuuri, please let me hold your hand, please listen – you came right over to me and didn’t treat me like I was some… fucking _god_. You treated me like I was another person. And yeah you were _drunk_ , but leaving that awful knot of sponsors who wanted to talk to me about my plans – plans that I didn’t have in the first place, mind you – to dance with you was one of the best things I’ve ever done, and I mean that.”

      “No,” Yuuri protested, trying to twist out of Viktor’s grasp again. Viktor let him go this time, and Yuuri staggered off the bed. “I’ve led you on, then, because that’s not the real me.”

      “Yuuri,” Viktor sighed, getting off the bed and approaching Yuuri like you might approach a scared animal, “I _know_ that. I’ve known that since my first night in Hasetsu. And Yuuri – darling, look at me, I _promise_ you I’m telling the truth – I wouldn’t change anything for the world. That I’ve been able to coach you is something I feel so grateful for. That I’m able to be a part of your life...,”

      Yuuri wanted to argue, he wanted to _fight_ , but instead he let Viktor put his hands on his waist and pull him close. Kissing Viktor back with his hands on his cheeks was instinctive; walking him backwards to the hotel bed felt right. And maybe he was kissing Viktor with the half-formed idea of leaving a mark, wanting to get his mouth puffy and eyes glazed, but Viktor didn’t seem to mind. He moved his hands lower to grab Yuuri’s ass like he meant it and Yuuri tugged at Viktor’s shirt until it came untucked. It wasn’t hard to push Viktor onto the bed, and he was all too eager to make it easy for Yuuri to peel his undershirt off. Yuuri settled over Viktor’s hips and kissed him deeply, their teeth bumping from the needy way Yuuri was biting kisses from him while Viktor worked at the buttons of Yuuri’s shirt. Dragging his teeth over Viktor’s lower lip elicited a moan from him, but then he was pushing Yuuri back with a hand on his chest.

      “Wait, you’re competing tomorrow, I don’t know –”

      Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s hand and put it back on his ass. Irritation over not being able to express his racing thoughts, doubts, and anxiety in full and desperation at facing his last competition with Viktor – not to mention the way Viktor was watching him with his pupils blown wide with arousal, arousal Yuuri was quite aware of from his position straddling Viktor’s hips – made him bold. He rolled his hips down into Viktor’s and leaned down to kiss him again, sweeter and hotter than the messy ones before.

      Against Viktor’s mouth, pulling on his lips with his own, Yuuri said, “And I’m not asking _you_ to fuck me into the mattress, am I?” Viktor gave a little squeak of surprise and it was fuel to the fire for Yuuri. He kissed down Viktor’s cheek and nipped at the hollow at the corner of his jaw. “But I’ve never had a problem skating after you’ve made me cum, either, have I?”

      And apparently Viktor couldn’t find an argument to that, because he recovered Yuuri’s mouth with his own and flipped them in one smooth motion so he was on top. Viktor was smiling between kisses, which he dropped undiscerningly onto the corner of Yuuri’s lips and jaw with murmurs of endearments. Some of the tension was melting away from Yuuri’s core, and he let himself relax into the sensation of Viktor’s body against his. He couldn’t change what he’d done in the past, couldn’t predict the future, and couldn’t control what other people thought, but he could show Viktor his love in this way, at least. And didn’t they deserve this? Yuuri was smiling, too, when he put his hands on Viktor’s face to bring their mouths properly together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!! I'm sorry it's been a while, I thought I'd be able to update within two weeks and that's turned into closer to a month. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be going back to my old multiple-times-a-week updates for the rest of this work because.... I got into art school!! Honestly I wasn't expecting my portfolio to come through but ~ It's just a weekly class for now but I've just been a depressed lump for a year so this is actually a big step for me. I also have plans to hopefully update Lost Youth soon, possibly before chapter 19 of this, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> This chapter is one that I've wanted to write since the very beginning - how was it going to work with Yuuri The Pole Dancer and yakuza tattoos? Also that exchange with Otabek and Yuri about Potya? I've been DREAMING about writing it since I realized 'Potya' may be short in this case for Puma Tiger Scorpion but is also the diminutive for Pyotr/Peter. I'm happy with what I achieved here, and I hope you enjoyed it, too. Also I genuinely did research and it's actually apparently pretty good to get off before competing, like given that you're not sore and all ;)
> 
> Part of the next chapter was initially a part of this chapter, and I'll be frank - the whole thing is going to be a doozy, emotionally. Sorry. But it also felt very important to write and put together, and hopefully that'll come through as the rest of this story unfolds.
> 
> As always, I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for reading and leaving feedback/kudos/bookmarks/etc. It means the whole world, especially as I've been an aforementioned depressed lump. Life has been so crazy lately, but this has been my constant, and I'm so grateful to share it with such lovely people.  
> If you're interested in looking at my guides to Yuuri and Viktor's tattoos as well as checking out some other things I've put together for BTSATS, it's all [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ❤️
> 
> Let me know what you thought!! And don't be shy to yell at me on tumblr to get my act (and the next chapter) together xoxo


	19. I Fell In Love With A War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I didn't know I had a dream_  
>  _I didn't know until I saw you_  
> ...  
>    _You're growing tired of me_  
>  _You love me so hard and I still can't sleep_  
>  _You're growing tired of me_  
>  _And all the things I don't talk about_  
>   
>   
>  Viktor and Yuuri have conversations with outside parties concerning the apparent engagement; Yuuri skates his Grand Prix short program.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary & title taken from Mitski's 'Come Into The Water' and 'The Pearl' off of Be The Cowboy (2018)
> 
> cw for some very slight derogatory/homophobic language - it's not used in a hateful way, but one of ignorance, and keep in mind that this is written by an lgb person (rather than a straight person exploiting the community/subjects)

      They’d fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs, slotted against each other like they were made to be. It was generally held by athletes that sex before competing would endanger performance, but Viktor looked over at Yuuri’s sleeping figure and couldn’t find the issue – and he had no doubt that if he hadn't been able to sleep in post-coital bliss, Yuuri would have been awake all night with his anxiety. There was still about an hour before the alarms on their phones would rouse them for the day, but the sunlight coming in through the curtains was enough to set on Viktor’s new ring and send a thrill through him, effectively waking him all the way.

      Yuuri made a soft noise in his sleep and rolled over, pressing his face into Viktor’s chest. Viktor was never going to be over him, never wanted to bring another orgasm from anyone else or wake up in anyone else’s arms; he never wanted to be with anyone else. It was something he felt with his entire being. Viktor ran his hand down Yuuri’s side, his fingertips touching the edges of the big snake tattoo that was still settling into Yuuri's skin, still puffy in places and tender in others. Viktor remembered the night Yuuri had gotten the tattoo - and the night before and plenty of the nights after - in vivid detail. _There’s no one else._

      With some difficulty, Viktor untangled himself from Yuuri. It wasn't difficult only because Yuuri had caught his leg over Viktor's, tangling their ankles - Yuuri was warm and naked and inviting, and it caught Viktor's attention in more ways than one. But he was wide awake, and if he stayed any longer, he would surely wake Yuuri up – and there was no way he’d endanger his sleep like that, especially with the competition starting in the evening. Yuuri sighed in his sleep and stretched an arm over the empty space Viktor left, and Viktor seriously considered getting back in bed – but there was a bay not far from the hotel, and the ocean was calling to him. So Viktor dressed quietly in the semi-darkness, casting looks over his shoulder every few moments to make sure Yuuri still slept.

      He knew it would upset Yuuri to wake up alone, so before he left the hotel room, Viktor knelt by the bed and kissed Yuuri on the cheek once, twice, three times, just to rouse him enough to tell him where he was going.

      “Hmmm?” Yuuri asked, reaching for Viktor with his eyes still closed. Viktor’s heart swelled in his chest.

      “I’m going for a walk, but I’ll be right back, pыбка,”

      Yuuri half-opened his eyes. “Is it time to get up?” he asked, voice wrapped in sleep and his Kyushu accent.

      Viktor leaned in to kiss him, soft and lingering just a little too long. Yuuri kissed him back belatedly, likely more of a reflex than anything. “No, you can sleep a little while longer. I’ll be back.”

      “Mmmokay,” Yuuri murmured, his eyes already falling closed again. Viktor thought Yuuri said something more under his breath, but if he had, it was in sleep-slurred Japanese, and there wasn't any sense in trying to get Yuuri to wake up and repeat himself. Either way, Viktor felt warmth buzzing through his whole body as he left the room.

 

      Viktor walked to the seawall. This early, there wasn’t too much activity in the city. In a few hours, though, there would be traffic and crowds of people. In a few hours, Yuuri would be getting warmed up for his skate – for the Final. But at the moment, Viktor could focus on the crashing ebb and flow of the waves below, the cries of the seagulls, and the feel of winter sunlight coming through the clouds. The seagulls reminded him of the beach closest to Yu-topia, where he’d spent so much time with Yuuri – of home.

      When Viktor realized he’d thought first of Hasetsu as home instead of St. Petersburg, he froze. _But it’s true_ , he told himself. It wasn’t just Yuuri asking him to be his coach that had captured Viktor so fully. For two-thirds of his life, Viktor had been skating. The only parts of him held back from the ice were between his shadow and his soul: the parts of him that ached all the time with loneliness so profound it hurt to try and comprehend and the parts of him that he wore like an armor to protect him from the rest of the world – the bratva he was a part of, the addiction he’d almost let take his life before overcoming, and the decision he made every day to stay clean and moving forward. And Yuuri had fallen right into that space between his shadow and soul, and made a home as something profound – he was the first person Viktor wanted to protect, wanted to hold on to and never let go, since his mother died when he was fourteen.

      Yuuri made Viktor think of life outside of skating or bribing state officials or craving cigarettes. Yuuri made Viktor want a nice house somewhere in a good neighborhood, made him want a future with blue skies and hobbies that weren’t breaking his body on the ice or getting into fights in alleyways to try and feel alive again. Viktor had been lauded as the Hero of Russia since he was a teenager, a teenager hurting with loss and held together by flawed discipline. That was enough, for a long time. But Viktor was tired. He didn’t _want_ that anymore. He just wanted _Yuuri_.

      He stretched and brought his right hand up in front of his face. He wasn’t wearing gloves like he usually did – an old habit picked up from hours at the rink combined with time spent with Yakov, who knew better than to touch any money with his bare hands – and the gold ring glinted, new and unfamiliar, on his third finger.

      Viktor considered the ring, and what it meant. It made sense, that it was an engagement ring, didn’t it? Yuuri hadn’t said it exactly, but Viktor could read his face and his body language pretty well. He could read between the lines. Yuuri wanted luck for his performances during the Final, and Viktor wanted to be that good luck charm. He wanted to be everything he could be for Yuuri. He wanted –

      Something hit Viktor square in the middle of his back. There wasn’t enough force to send him against the seawall’s railing, but it was still a solid hit. Viktor held his breath, rocking forward reflexively. _What the hell was that_?

      There was another impact, this one with a soft grunt – it was someo _ne_ , not somet _hing_. Before Viktor could turn around, he was hit – _kicked_ , that was definitely a sneaker he was feeling against his back – seven more times, each less powerful than the one before.

      “Viktor Nikiforov is _dead_.”

      Viktor turned, slowly. Yuri Plisetsky was glowering up at him from beneath the hood of his sweater.

      “Why are you so damn happy to just leave everything to look after that… fucking _pig_?”

      Anger rose in Viktor’s stomach like an ugly monster, desperate to escape. _How_ dare _he? How dare he act like my Yuuri is a burden – how dare he call him names?_ He kept his breathing even, even though the effort had his hands clenched into fists and trembling all the same. _I’m not going to sink to his level, I’m not going to fight with him. He’s a kid. He’s_ Yula’s _kid_. But he couldn’t resist closing the small space between them and bending down a little, so he was in Yuri’s space and their eyes were level. His voice was low, more mocking than he really meant it to be, when he asked, “Did you want to skate against me?”

      Yuri stared back unflinchingly with his jaw muscle jumping and his eyes bright, venomous green where the sunlight caught them. “Don’t be so full of yourself,” he spat, “not all skaters look up to you.”

      Viktor knew that was a lie; he knew Yuri looked up to him. Of course he did – when Yakov brought the kid to Yubileyny from whatever community rink he’d been skating at in Moscow, he’d been starstruck. Blond and small and fiercely determined to skate well, he’d reminded Viktor so much of Yulia that it hurt to look at him for a week – and sometimes still did. He knew Yuri was his fan from the way he skated, sometimes focusing so hard on figuring out what Viktor did to make his performances work that he’d turn around and copy him down to the flip of his hair. Viktor had been the Hero of Russia since Yuri was skating his first steps on the ice; even those years he’d been in and out of rehab and causing problems for the brigadiers of his bratva, the skating world had been obsessed with him. And maybe Viktor had been dealing with old wounds and addictions and rebellion around the time Yuri came to Yubileyny, but he’d seen the merchandise with his face on it that the kid clung to like a safety blanket. Of _course_ Yuri was his fan.

      And Yuri wasn’t done. His voice, too, was pitched low. “Why don’t you just hurry up and _leave_ , old man? You’re like my mother – instead of living your life like you’re supposed to, you fucking leave.”

      Viktor grabbed Yuri under the chin and forced him to look up. It hurt to hear Yuri say that – didn’t he know how much Yulia had loved him? This wasn’t that, anyway. “Your mother _died_ –”

      “Didn’t you hear me? Viktor Nikiforov _is_ dead,” Yuri said, voice surprisingly even. “And don’t you dare say that you’re not leaving – you left _months_ ago. So listen to me, if your old ears can even hear anymore. If you’re going to do this, you don’t get to screw around. You don’t get to flake around like you have your whole, stupid life.”

      Viktor’s hands were still shaking, but now he was holding Yuri so tight because he needed the stability. Yuri probably recognized that, and he shoved Viktor’s arm.

      “Let _go_ of me,” he snapped, and when Viktor’s arm fell away he stepped back but didn’t leave.

      There was a dog barking at the seagulls below on the beach; Viktor forced himself to turn away from Yuri and look to the water, fighting to even his breathing out. First it was Yuri’s comment about his mother, then it was the heavy truth of his words, but Viktor had tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he knew that it was just one more weakness he didn’t need to show. _If I had stayed in Russia as a competitor, though,_ he thought, breathing the salty air deep in his lungs _,_ _Yurio wouldn’t be this motivated to fight. And neither would I._

      When Viktor looked back to Yuri, he was starting to walk away. He must have felt Viktor’s gaze, though, because he stopped and looked over his shoulder. His voice was softer, not so rough with poorly disguised anguish, when he said, “This place kind of reminds me of Hasetsu’s ocean,”

      “I thought so, too. And Yurio?” Viktor knew the kid would be able to see the tears in his eyes now, but he wasn’t about to wipe them away like he was ashamed. “Yulia loved you, and she would have given everything for you – I knew that even when I was eleven and she told me she was having a baby. So don’t you think for a _second_ that she left you because she didn’t love you, just like I’m not leaving because I don’t love you, either.”

      Yuri stared back at Viktor for a long moment but didn’t say anything more. And then he left, leaving Viktor alone to look back out at the water. He replayed Yuri’s earlier words, and he thought of the softness of his Yuuri’s smile. He thought of the hours they’d all spent together while Yuuri learned Eros and Yuri learned Agape. Whether or not Yuri would ever admit it, he’d found a second home in Hasetsu, too, and even more, he’d found himself. _I wasn’t the only one that Yuuri showed life and love._

 

      Yuuri woke a few minutes before he knew the alarm on his phone would go off. Viktor wasn’t in bed next to him, and for a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm him. But Yuuri forced himself to breathe and wake up a little more, and a conversation he thought he’d dreamed came back to him – Viktor was taking a walk, and would probably be back any minute. Even though Viktor wasn’t physically beside him, the weight of the new gold ring on Yuuri’s finger was a reminder enough that Viktor was _metaphorically_ with him, and that helped the panic subside, too. His physical absence, though, gave Yuuri time to do something he’d been putting off.

      Hasetsu was seven hours ahead of Barcelona – it was early afternoon there, even as it was just after daybreak in Spain. Yuuri pulled the top sheet free of the bedding and wrapped it around himself before going in search of wherever his phone had ended up the night before. Finding it and preemptively turning the alarm off, Yuuri returned to sit on the bed and dial a number that he didn’t have saved anywhere but knew by heart just the same. There were some things that were better discussed than learned from internationally televised events.

      Yamamoto answered the phone after the first few rings. In place of a greeting, he said, “Yuuri-kun, I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

      Yuuri swallowed and greeted Yamamoto formally, if not robotically. He was met with silence. Yamamoto was waiting for him to speak. Yuuri’s free hand was shaking; he twisted his fist into the sheet around his shoulders. It had a similar effect to when he would wrap his hands before sparring with Mari years ago when he was learning Aikido – Yuuri made himself take a deep breath. Aikido taught that life shouldn’t be seen as good and bad; it taught control. It taught that life was growth. So Yuuri pushed his misgivings away and took another steadying breath. Yamamoto had been waiting for him to speak. “Yamamoto-san, I wanted to inform you of an event that took place last night.”

      “Is everything alright? Was there some kind of problem, Yuuri-kun?”

      Yuuri bit his lip at the concern in Yamamoto’s voice. The weight of the ring was something he had to get used to, but Yuuri couldn’t think of calling it a _problem_. “No sir, it’s not that. I – I was overcome with the desire to find an omamori for the upcoming Final.”

      “And?” there was the sound of movement, the scraping of a chair or stool on hardwood. Yamamoto was moving somewhere quieter, with less chance of being overheard.

      “I chose a gold ring, for the _en_ it shares with a gold medal. And I, ah – well, I purchased one for Viktor,”

      Yamamoto was silent for several seconds, several beats of the heart. Then, “So you’re calling to tell me you’ve proposed to a Russian mobster, Yuuri-kun?”

      Yuuri flinched. While Yamamoto didn’t sound angry, his tone was sharp – and Yuuri couldn’t begrudge him that. “Not so much in words but action, Yamamoto-san… but yes, I think I did.”

      “You _think_?” Yamamoto swore under his breath. “Let me guess, Yuuri-kun, you didn’t talk it over, just presented him with a ring?”

      Yuuri bit his lip against adding, _in a chapel at dusk while a choir sang_. That wouldn’t help his case, would it? “My deepest apologies, Yamamoto-san, I should have consulted you first. This mistake is mine, again, I’m sorry –”

      “I’m not upset, Yuuri-kun,” Yamamoto interrupted, and Yuuri clamped his mouth shut before he could dig himself into a deeper hole. “Nikiforov, though, he takes this as an engagement?”

      “He’s the one who called it that,” Yuuri said, a flare of warmth coming to life in his stomach just thinking about the way Viktor had looked at him in front of all those skaters. “He said we would get married after I win gold.”

      “Does he know you’re planning on retiring after this competition?”

      The shakes were starting to come back and Yuuri clenched his fists. The ring was a comfort band, and it didn’t dig into his skin even though Yuuri’s short nails were biting into his palm. “No, Yamamoto-san,”

      “Are you sure that this is what you want, Yuuri-kun?”

      Yuuri blinked, feeling the urge to hide his blushing cheeks though Yamamoto obviously couldn’t see them. Softly, he said, “I’ve been in love with him since I was a kid, Yamamoto-san,”

      Yamamoto gave a guffaw. “No, not marrying Nikiforov – _retiring_. I know you think you’re holding up his time, but considering that the rest of the Russians haven’t voiced any issue with having the most flamboyant mobster to exist in Japan these last months, you might be in the clear to keep him to yourself… Speaking of, Yuuri-kun, how do you think they’ll react to Nikiforov’s engagement? Do _they_ know he’s a fairy?”

      Yuuri bristled at Yamamoto’s descriptors of Viktor, though he knew that Yamamoto probably didn’t mean any malice behind him – after all, he’d never said anything negative to Yuuri about his own sexuality. Still, it was through gritted teeth that Yuuri replied, “Well, Yamamoto-san, Viktor’s early career was based around androgyny and femininity, and his coach is one of the direct advisors to the mob’s boss, so I don’t think there’s an issue with his sexuality among his bratva. And while they may not see me as holding him back _, I_ do – in the context of skating. So if I can end my career with a gold, rather than going on alone and ending my career with some kind of unspeakably low rating, I’ll be recognized by the ISU and by sponsors and continue to gain revenue for our ninkyō dantai.”

      Yamamoto was silent for several heartbeats. Then, “You’ve thought this through more than I have, Yuuri-kun, and it is ultimately your decision. But tell me, then, what does Nikiforov’s mob know of you?”

      Even though it was a question that Yuuri himself wondered, not to mention that it was something that would have to come to light at some point, it made Yuuri feel like a double agent. He tried not to sigh into the receiver of the phone, though; there was no one to protect, no secrets to be withheld right now. “As far as I know, they don’t – I mean, what they know is that I’m a Japanese skater. Viktor mentioned once that before he came to Hasetsu, his coach warned him about criminals because of the proximity to Fukuoka.”

      “And you said that this coach has some high position in the bratva?”

      Yuuri bit his lip. He _had_ let that slip, hadn’t he? “I think so, at least. Viktor mentioned it in passing and I did some research into the position, though I can’t say for certain, Yamamoto-san.”

      “That will probably be a subject best broached with either myself or Fukuyama-san in attendance, don’t you think, Yuuri-kun? If you _will_ be marrying into a Russian mob – and if a Russian mobster will indeed be marrying in to the ninkyō dantai.”

      A headache was brewing intensely behind Yuuri’s eyes. He resisted the urge to flop back on the bed and put a pillow over his head until Viktor returned and made him get dressed to head to the rink. Yamamoto was waiting for Yuuri’s response, though; the silence had dragged on longer than was acceptable.

      “Yuuri-kun?”

      “I don’t know if he really will want to marry me,” _why am I confiding in my boss? What am I saying? Fuck, how do I_ stop _? Ugh, but I really do need to talk to him about this, actually. Damn it._

      “Why is that?” Yamamoto’s tone was carefully neutral.

      “There was something that happened at the Sochi banquet,” Yuuri began, cautious.

      “Ah, so you finally recall that particular event?”

      “I – what?”

      Yamamoto was chuckling, but Yuuri was unnerved all the same. “Quite the cleanup went in to that, Yuuri-kun. I can’t say I was terribly surprised, but we are all glad that it wasn’t Toshiya in your place.”

      Yuuri blinked. “How – how have I been allowed to continue to compete? How has this not gone viral, how do I have sponsors, how –”

      “Yuuri-kun,” Yamamoto interrupted, the laughter not all gone from his voice but taking a warning tone all the same, “ _Think_ of who you are talking to. You are lucky we have so many international connections – and Celestino’s reputation was at stake, too. And do I need to go through the list of benefactors you’ve gained in the last season, even when you were talking about retiring? And weren’t you even offered a position as a judge on a dancing show in Tokyo?"

      “Oh.” Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose. _Being asked to act as one of the faces for the Armani athletic underwear line is starting to make sense – but of_ course _I didn’t question it, Viktor was the other face and they sent some of his proofs along with the offer… fuck_. “Thank you again, Yamamoto-san. I apologize for any dishonor my shameful behavior brought the ninkyō dantai and my family.”

      Yamamoto snorted. “We made money in the end, and you gained another level of intrigue. It was not dishonor in the end, and there was no issue of revealing your connection to the ninkyō dantai. None of that footage ever circulated – and never will. But Yuuri-kun, enough of this – you should be preparing for your skate today, shouldn’t you?”

      Yuuri closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Yamamoto-san. Viktor is, er, getting breakfast and I simply wanted to check in with you.”

      “That’s fine, Yuuri-kun. Don’t bother with contacting Fukuyama-san; I already have a meeting with him later in the week, and by then we should know your decision about continuing to skate or retiring. We stand by your decision. But, Yuuri-kun, please don’t get us involved in any of those pissing matches between the Russians. They have a proclivity for explosive assassinations.”

      It was a joke, obvious in the way Yamamoto was chuckling, but Yuuri’s stomach swooped dangerously. Of course, the same could be said for the rival gangs around Kobe, but he wasn’t going to bring that up. “Yes, Yamamoto-san. Thank you.”

      “The whole of Hasetsu and more is watching you, Yuuri-kun,” Yamamoto said. And before Yuuri could say anything more, Yamamoto ended the call.

 

      Viktor and Yuuri had been able to take their time getting ready before heading to Centre de Convencions Internacional de Barcelona. It wasn’t until well after breakfast that Viktor started getting himself ready, and Yuuri didn’t move until he figured Viktor was about halfway through his routine. Viktor was wearing his coaching best – a bespoke suit that screamed money and power and polish – and a sweet cologne that followed him around the hotel room as he flitted between the bathroom and the bed, which was covered in a myriad of cosmetics.

      There was something different about him this morning, obvious beneath his excitement for the Final. He’d come back to the hotel room not long after Yuuri’s phone call with Yamamoto had ended, smelling of salty air and the pastries he’d purchased from a shop near the hotel.

      There had been a moment where they locked eyes, Yuuri reading the tension in Viktor’s shoulders and the barely-there pink under his eyes and Viktor no doubt having questions about the way Yuuri had all but knotted the bedsheets around himself. But Viktor didn’t say anything other than gently tease about how surprised he was to see that Yuuri was awake, and Yuuri didn’t comment on the plasticine quality of Viktor’s smile.

      Now, Yuuri was in his track pants and a long-sleeved Under Armour shirt, feet bare as he sat on the edge of the bed to roll the sleeves to the middle of his forearms. Viktor appeared next to him like a rose-and-sandalwood scented ghost. He was quiet this morning, but his smile looking down at Yuuri looked more genuine, less brittle. When Yuuri looked up at Viktor, Viktor slowly moved to card his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. It was one of those simple moments, with the still early morning light filtering through the hotel room drapes, that Yuuri wanted to last forever. Studying Viktor’s face, Yuuri realized something that made something in his stomach come alive, “You’re not wearing mascara today?”

      Viktor bit his lower lip, a smile teasing at the edge of his mouth. He hadn’t stopped running his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. “It’s something you said – that you like my blond eyelashes?”

      Yuuri closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against Viktor’s arm, fighting his own smile. “I told you that?”

      “I’m sure you’ve mentioned it,”

      Yuuri pressed his lips against the part of Viktor’s arm that was closest to him, not a proper kiss but enough of an imitation of one. “Well, it’s true, Vitya.”

      Viktor sighed, “Well, if I’m told later on that I looked awful on television, I’ll tell them it was for love.” Before Yuuri could form an argument (first of all, who would _dare_ tell Viktor that he looked bad?), though, Viktor was pulling away. “Yuuri, darling, can I fix your hair?”

      Yuuri opened his eyes, surprised that he had to blink back tears. Wordlessly, he nodded at Viktor, and slipped from the edge of the bed to sit on the floor. Viktor sat in Yuuri’s place, his thighs around Yuuri’s shoulders. He’d brought a comb and the tub of hair gel from the bathroom; now he got to work slicking Yuuri’s hair back. It was a familiar thing, this ritual of theirs – it was almost enough for Yuuri to get his mind to quiet down. There wasn’t time to get lost in thought today.

 

      It was in a haze that Yuuri arrived at CCIB. Viktor was a comforting presence at his back, gently pushing Yuuri forward, through the crowds of reporters and other skaters toward the staging area. There was some time to kill: the senior men’s short programs were the last event of the day, following a full schedule of all the juniors’ free programs, but after that it would be onto the group warmup and then Yuuri, as the skater in sixth place entering the Final, would have the first performance.

      Yuuri didn’t pay much attention to the juniors’ programs, a live feed of which was shown on monitors all over the staging area. There was so much excitement, such loaded tension in the air, that it was hard to keep his thoughts straight. His anxiety was brewing in his stomach, threatening to flare badly and make itself known, but Yuuri pushed it down and tried to run his mind over not the cyclical thoughts of failure but the more abstract feelings he had about the Final as he went through his warmup on autopilot.

      The fact that Viktor wasn’t competing and Yuuri _was_ aside, this Grand Prix Final had the potential to be, in Yuuri’s opinion, one of the best ever, competitor-wise. Phichit was around the bottom of the pack and wasn’t projected to place, but he deserved his place at Barcelona – being the first Thai skater to win gold at the Cup of China had been a major accomplishment for Southeast Asian skaters, and he’d been on a roll all season with his performances. Now, he was representing his country as the first Thai skater to ever advance to the Grand Prix Final. Before this season, Phichit had been a relative unknown, and Yuuri couldn’t think of anyone better to reach prominence for their hard work than his best friend. Phichit had been skating since he was a young child, and he’d even moved to Detroit as a sixteen-year-old for this. Even if Phichit didn’t place in this year’s Final, Yuuri had no doubt he’d come to prominence in the years to come.

      Yuri was the youngest competitor at age fifteen, placed fourth overall in the series, but anyone who didn’t see him as a threat was an idiot, plain and simple. The brief time that Yuri had been in Hasetsu had been such a period of enlightenment for Yuuri – never before had he seen someone so young and so dead-set on perfection, not even Viktor. He’d declared that he would win gold in his senior debut, and here he was, showing how incredibly capable of doing just that he was. Viktor hadn’t even done something so daring – but then again, it was becoming more and more obvious how much Yuri resented being compared to Viktor. It made sense to Yuuri: here was a child who’d come from near poverty in Moscow, now on the edge of global recognition for something he’d poured his entire life thus far into. And from what Yuuri understood from Viktor, even though he was a relatively young teenager, Yuri was the main breadwinner for his family, and had been for some years. It made sense that he didn’t want to share the recognition for something that he’d sweat and bled so profusely for, something that really was uniquely his. There was something somber and respectable about it.

      Christophe was projected to be on the podium; that’s where he’d been, standing next to Viktor, for the last five years. He’d never been able to surpass Viktor, though, not even in the early years right after Viktor’s triumphant return to skating – if Chris won the Final, it would be the first title in his career. Josef Karpíšek had been adamant throughout the series that this would be Chris’ time to shine, now that Viktor was off playing at being a coach. Yuuri had been friends with Chris since their junior years – they’d never been exactly _close_ , but always supportive of one another (and always ready to huddle together to discuss Viktor’s antics, as they both idolized him). It was really Chris who made an effort to maintain the friendship – Yuuri was shy and withdrawn, but Chris was much more understanding than met the eye, and he’d coaxed their friendship to life. Chris was larger-than-life on the ice and enigmatic in his personal life in a way Yuuri couldn’t even dream of; not only was he physically the tallest and broadest of all the competitors, but he wasted no pretense when it came to the visibility of his sexuality.

      Otabek Altin was what the skating media had dubbed ‘The Dark Horse’ of the competition., though why he was still considered a dark horse after winning bronze at the prior season’s World Championship – as a seventeen year old, no less – was beyond Yuuri. Of course, little was known about the Kazakh skater other than that he’d trained in America, Canada, and Russia all before returning to his home country. For his return to Kazakhstan and his inimitable power on the ice, he’d been dubbed by his homeland as the Hero of Kazakhstan. Now, after winning in the qualifiers, he was going into the Final in second place. It had been considered an upset – even with medal at World’s, not much had been expected from the eighteen-year-old, with his small stature and unorthodox approaches to skating.

      Going into the Final in first place was Jean-Jacques – JJ – or, as Viktor had a habit of calling him, the Loud Canadian. He was the only skater who’d won both qualifying skates; added to his gargantuan ego and undeniable presence among fans, it was no surprise that JJ was the favorite for the gold. To Yuuri, JJ was something of an enigma. Like Otabek, he’d briefly trained in America with Celestino Cialdini, and in his junior years with Leo de la Iglesia’s coach. Yuuri remembered JJ being in the midst of a growth spurt with all the grace of a newborn deer, and the wide blue eyes of a sheltered child who had never experienced life outside his large family’s protective circle (Yuuri was never going to forget the practice he’d shown up to, incredibly hungover, only to have JJ innocently ask about the phone number scrawled across Yuuri’s forearm at an… _interesting_ angle. Yuuri hadn’t thought to censor his explanation to the kid, leading to what was probably one of the shocks of his life). Now at nineteen, JJ was not only a top skater and full-time student, but a large figure in Canadian media with his endless charity and mission work, as well as his many sponsorships and brand collaborations. So, while Yuuri was no doubt an intimidating figure to JJ at one point, now it was Yuuri who felt intimidated by the teenager. Seriously, how did he come up with not one but two programs with six quads?

      It hadn’t been exactly easy to find a secluded corner for Yuuri to change in without exposing the massive tattoo spanning the length of his back, but thankfully Viktor, too, had practice in hiding. As Viktor zipped the Eros costume up for Yuuri, brushing imaginary dust from the black lycra and mesh, the memory of their fight in the parking garage at the Cup of China came unbidden to Yuuri’s mind. _Yuuri, if you mess up on this and miss the podium, I’ll take responsibility by resigning as your coach_. It was suddenly too hard to breathe, with Viktor’s hands still lingering at Yuuri’s waist. The pain he’d felt when Viktor had said those words to him was pale in comparison to the building ache of what Yuuri knew was to come. Yuuri had shouted, _I just need you to have more faith than I do that I’ll win! You don’t even have to_ say _anything. Just need to stand by me_.

      And now here was Viktor, _standing by him_ with a promise of faith in him in the shape of a ring on his finger and whispers of encouragement, and Yuuri had never felt such a mixture of preemptive loss and desperation to win. How much longer would he have this? _He doesn’t know and it’s too late to tell him._ Viktor, unaware of the turmoil Yuuri was trying to process, was blithely outlining what he wanted to see from Yuuri in the warmup. Yuuri let the words wash over him, and finally turned away from the wall to meet Viktor’s eyes, to give him a smile. He hoped it didn’t look at brittle as it felt.

      There had been well wishing and some banter between coaches and competitors alike on the walk from the stands to the staging area and locker rooms, and then as the skaters broke off through the staging area to do their stretches, but as the officials herded the group back to the ice, everyone was silent. The Grand Prix wasn’t _the_ most prestigious of the figure skating events (sitting behind Worlds and the Olympics), but it definitely set the tone for the season. This was what they had all been preparing for, all the months since World’s. No one competing this season had won a Grand Prix Final before; with Viktor on the sidelines as a coach, it was figuratively anyone’s game. Their respective flags were displayed proudly on the track jackets they all wore – a delegation of international skaters, ready to lay their hearts bare on the ice.

      Yuuri stood at the gate a little behind JJ. Yuri, Phichit, and Chris flanked him, and Otabek was somewhere to the side, giving the other skaters space. They would be released onto the ice in a moment for the warmup. Yuuri rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes. He wasn’t a very religious or spiritual person and he didn’t often pray, but the ring on his finger wasn’t something he could ignore – the omamori for gold in the Final; the _en_ with his relationship with Viktor. _What was it I told everyone? That I’d win the Grand Prix Final with the power of love. Let’s see how that goes.. I’ve made it this far, there’s no reason why I can’t make it._

      Yuuri’s thoughts quieted a little once he was able to get on the ice and skate compulsory warmup figures. The scratch of blades on ice was loud in his ears, and he tuned everyone else out. It was just him on the ice, with brightly colored blurs at the corners of his vision. _All it is is a warmup; that’s all this is._ But too soon, the buzzer was sounding for the skaters to exit the ice, and Yuuri was left truly alone. He skated dutifully to the boards where Viktor was waiting, all perfect hair and impeccable dress. Yuuri didn’t want to look at him, not yet, so he bowed his head and closed his eyes. He could feel the eyes of the other skaters and their coaches as they walked past on the other side of the boards; he could feel the eyes of the audience. His hands were tingling, but not from the cold rolling off the ice. _This is it, this is it, this is it._

      “Yuuri,”

      Yuuri looked up without hesitation, hating the way his eyes went first to Viktor’s lips and the way it was almost a struggle to meet his eyes. “Yes?”

      Viktor caught Yuuri’s right wrist, lifted it from where Yuuri had draped his arms over the boards, and clasped Yuuri’s hand in his own. Yuuri’s eyes were drawn to the flash of Viktor’s ring in the movement. The sleeve of the Eros costume came over Yuuri’s palm to hook around his fingers, but even through the mesh Yuuri could feel the soft coolness of Viktor’s hand – he hadn’t worn gloves today, putting the ring on display for everyone to see. A murmur was rising through the stands as they noticed the matching rings; Yuuri kept his back straight and his eyes on Viktor. What anyone watching had to say didn’t matter. Slowly, as if in a daze, Viktor raised their clasped hands to plant a lingering kiss over the ring Yuuri wore.

      “...his coach is empowering their matching rings in a prayer for victory,”

      If circumstances were different, Yuuri would’ve rolled his eyes at the snatch of commentary he heard. But then again, that _is_ what the rings were, on some level – a prayer for victory. How amusing.

 _I’m going to try my hardest… For us. So… tell me something for luck._ That’s what he’d said to Viktor in the cathedral the night before. And Viktor had looked at him, the streetlights through the windows giving him a golden glow and a pink flush blotting out his dapple-like freckles, his gaze so tender that Yuuri could’ve been dreaming. _Of course, Yuuri, I’ll say something you won’t even have to think about,_ Viktor answered, and he’d plucked the second ring, unprompted, from Yuuri to slide it onto his right hand ring finger with an air of careful ceremony befit of someone far, far greater than Yuuri. _Tomorrow, show me the skating that you can honestly say you liked the best_.

      Yuuri hadn’t been able to decide right away what Viktor meant by that, but now he thought he knew. So he squared his shoulders and met Viktor’s eyes again, a flare of warmth coming to life in his gut at the fierce pride he saw there. He believes in me. _He has faith in my ability to win – probably more faith than I do. And that’s all I’ve asked him for over these months._

      “Well, I’m off,” Yuuri said, slipping his hand from Viktor’s grasp and moving it back as if in slow motion, purposefully drawing Viktor's eye to the ring. _Does he know?_ Yuuri smiled and pushed back from the boards. _This is for him._ It was time to take his place.

      Going in to the Final, it was clear to everyone that Yuuri was the underdog. He’d barely scraped into the competition (something he tried to put out of his mind but just couldn’t, not when he knew that he didn’t meet the standards expected of him by the rest of the world) on a technicality. Viktor hadn’t brought it up to Yuuri, not since his gentle reprimands when Yuuri was settled back in Hasetsu after Moscow and they’d both caught up on sleep, but Yuuri just  _knew_  that it was a fact that weighed heavily on Viktor, too. How could it not?

      At the same time though, Yuuri wouldn’t give his place up for anything. This was for Vicchan, who he never got to say goodbye to. This was for his family, and their endless support, even when Yuuri knew he didn’t deserve it. This was for his ninkyō dantai, for the allowances that had been made for him and the steadfast direction they’d been able to provide for Yuuri for much of his life. This was for Viktor, who flew across the world expecting a sexpot and found instead an anxiety-ridden, dime-a-dozen skater ready to throw the towel in; who had become the coach Yuuri didn’t know he needed, and so much more in the process. This was for himself, an act of redemption and a way to bid farewell to the first thing he’d ever fallen in love with – figure skating. Because if he was losing Viktor as his coach, there would be no love left on the ice. This was it. _It’ll all be alright. I’ve got this._

      When Yuuri turned away from Viktor to face the crowd, they roared with applause. He hadn’t failed to captivate audiences with the Eros performances yet, and had no intention of starting now. _Smile, wave, everything is fine._ Last year, he had finished the Final in last place. He was determined not to let that happen again. Yuuri let himself soak up the cheers, imagining that he could hear the voices of Minako and Mari among them. Back in Japan it was the middle of the night, but Yuuri had a feeling that Yu-topia was still brightly lit and relatively full with his parents, the Nishigoris, and members of the ninkyō dantai. Makkachin would be watching, too – that, at least, brought a small smile back to Yuuri’s lips.

      Yuuri took his starting position after a small loop across the ice. Before he lowered his gaze, he thought he could make out Viktor against the boards, pressing his lips to the back of his hand – rather, the ring Yuuri had put on his finger the night before. Yuuri found himself kissing his own ring – there was a promise here, a wish represented in gold. Silence was quickly falling across the crowd, and then the first strains of _On Love: Eros_ filled the rink, and Yuuri let himself be caught up in the music. At the pause in the music, he looked to Viktor across the rink, the way he always did.

      The program took on a new meaning, now that Yuuri realized that _he_ was the one who’d seduced _Viktor_ – black out drunk and handsy in Sochi. Yuuri didn’t remember much more than hazy snatches that made his head hurt from concentrating, but it didn’t matter. He was going to do an even better job on the ice – he couldn’t have people remembering him at Sochi (either the abysmal performance he’d given or the drunken dance off he’d roped others into at the banquet). More than just the gold and his lasting reputation was resting on this skate – a clean performance was what Yuuri needed to keep clinging to the dregs of his pride, and more than that, to show his worth to Viktor.

      The jump composition this time around was altered for an extra kick. _Even if I beat my personal best again_ , Yuuri thought as he moved through the opening step sequence, _I can’t beat JJ. His program has 5.22 points on mine just based on the base value of the jumps alone. So if I don’t change my program…_ that had been an interesting conversation with Viktor. It was late in the day, and they’d been at Ice Castle Hasetsu since just after breakfast. Yuuri’s thermal shirt was soaked with sweat and his hair was standing in all directions from being tugged at in frustration. Even Viktor had shed his puffy jacket, wrapping it around his waist and standing on the ice in his short-sleeved t-shirt instead. There was enough heat between their bodies after skating so long that the chill of the rink was comfortable, even in early December.

      “You want to change the jump to a quad flip in your short program?” Viktor had repeated Yuuri's statement, arms crossed across his chest. He didn’t sound exactly reproachful, just cautionary. “You don’t even land that consistently in practice,”

      Yuuri had squared his jaw and pushed his chest out a little.“Yeah, but I have time to master the execution of it before the Final,” he said, not looking away from Viktor’s eyes, searching for a sign. Viktor stared back, face impassive, so Yuuri leaned forward, a fist clenched emphatically. “Finding out how far I can push my limits to win will motivate me to fight through the Final!”

      Viktor was thinking, his eyes moving under half-lowered eyelids. Yuuri leaned a little closer, undeniably into Viktor’s space, and put his fist against his own chest. Softly, he said, “Don’t you want to see that, Viktor? To see me land a quad flip and earn an additional three points for GOE?”

      Viktor had opened his eyes then, and the setting sunlight made them the look like the ocean’s waves against white sand – light and dark and perfect.

      “I do!” he'd crowed, throwing himself into Yuuri’s arms so enthusiastically that Yuuri slid a little on the ice. With his face tucked into Yuuri’s cheek, he repeated, “I do, pыбка,”

 _Since then, I’ve focused practice time on the quadruple flip, but my success rate is still low._ Yuuri was in a sit spin, skating on autopilot. _I need this skate to be perfect, every component, every edge._

      Viktor couldn’t look away from Yuuri, but that really was nothing new. _He doesn’t doubt his decisions anymore, but my own heart feels like it’s about to explode._ Viktor was never going to tire of watching Yuuri skate: his face was beautiful, even set into a determined mask like it was now. The difficult entry – from a spread eagle – to the triple axel would gain additional points; Yuuri landed it cleanly, just like he always did. Viktor gasped all the same when he did; there was so much adrenaline pounding through his veins that he might as well be on the ice, too. The quad combination was next, and Viktor set his jaw and braced himself against the boards.

      Quad salchow, triple toe loop – clean and pretty, definitely deserving of solid technical scores. Viktor couldn’t help himself; he dropped his cool facade and barked, “ _Yes_!”

 _Excitement courses through the body, down to the toes, and is released!_ Viktor thought, watching Yuuri’s short step sequence. He knew what was coming; the final component, the last quad – _Viktor’s_ quad, the quadruple flip. What would the judges think? What would the commentators say? Would people be surprised? Viktor’s hands tensed on the boards; mentally, he was on the ice, skating these steps with Yuuri. _Good, now just use that speed to…_ Viktor jumped in the air in a mirror of Yuuri; he landed neatly in his oxfords in time to see Yuuri land the quad, putting a hand down to the ice. Even so, Viktor’s heart was pounding in his chest – Yuuri had landed the quad, not _neatly_ , but landed it all the same. Viktor was so _proud_.

      Yuuri sometimes took little things like touching down to heart, but there was no evidence of frustration in his movements. He skated into his last sit spin, his movements sweeping and beautiful. There were the last steps and spins, and then he was standing in the middle of the ice with the last crescendo, the seductress having cast aside her lover. From the boards, Viktor could see how hard Yuuri was breathing – and not a triumphant grin, but a firm line Yuuri had pressed his lips into.

      Yuuri held his end pose, panting, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He’d failed – this needed to be a perfect skate, and he had to go and _touch down_ on the fucking otherwise clean _quad flip_ of all jumps. He gracelessly sank to his knees, hitting the ice with a bruising force. This was it for him, and he needed – not wanted, _needed_ – his skating to be enough. He needed to be enough so that Viktor would still want him. And his pride had been ripped from him not much more than an hour after he put the ring on Viktor’s finger last night with the awful revelation of what had really happened at the Sochi banquet; failing to land cleanly now in the short program tore the dregs of hope and pride right from Yuuri’s clammy grasp.

 _It’s over. It wasn’t perfect, and my last short-program skate will forever be remembered as flawed. This was the jump that was meant to show Viktor how much he means to me, and I couldn’t even get it right._ Yuuri crumbled, fists and forehead pressed against the ice, and wept. The force of barely contained sobs wracked his body, and he stayed that way, shaking and tense on the ice for far longer than he should’ve – but with nothing left of his pride, nothing to keep in tact, it didn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me rereading this chapter* :/ that shit hurted  
> Hello! I'm sorta back!! My laptop hasn't been charging this whole time (today is the first time I've been on it/able to write in the last 2.5 weeks), but I think everything is finally functioning. It's still going to be slow going from here on out though ://
> 
> Yuri and Viktor's discussion was originally a part of chapter 18, and it's one of the bits I was trying to put together before writing the fic (due in part to the fantastic meta dissections of the scene that I read - if you want links I'll gladly share). It's probably one of the more emotional things that I've written lately. Honestly though the narrative I'm following here is a bit of a doozy whoops
> 
> If you're looking for my drawings and references when it comes to this fic, I'd like to [direct you here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ⭐️ You can also contact me via that link [it's my tumblr] if you have questions or just wanna chat!! Want to read about Viktor's past in this AU? You can find it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952744)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and sticking with me through this ❤️ my personal life has been. a MESS and I also started art school but yeah there's no way I'm abandoning this fic xoxox
> 
> [ps listen to Be The Cowboy :') Mitski really Did That and I wasn't prepared I love her sm]


	20. Can I Go Back To Where I Started?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I close my eyes as I keep going_   
>  _Unto this carousel that once stopped moving_   
>  _I can see the other side and I_   
>  _Can't see the other side_   
>  _And I'm too scared to get up_
> 
>  
> 
> Viktor experiences the aftermath of Yuuri's short program; Yuri skates his short program, which is interpreted more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little short, but I hope you'll enjoy it all the same :)
> 
> Title from Basement's 'Disconnect'

      Viktor watched Yuuri fall apart on the ice with growing horror, though he kept his face composed and impassive like he’d taught himself to do long ago. Slowly, Yuuri staggered upright, not bothering to acknowledge the cheering fans or the gifts thrown onto the ice. He skated to the gate with his head down, as if that would make it so tears weren’t mingled with the sweat on his cheeks. Numbly, Viktor moved to meet Yuuri, producing his skate guards and passing them over wordlessly. Yuuri was choking on a sob as their fingers brushed, and Viktor was reminded of himself the season before so strongly that he had to keep one hand on the boards to stay upright with the poodle tissue box under his arm. Yuuri let himself be helped back into his track jacket, zipping it robotically, still looking away from Viktor. Viktor longed to wrap him up in his arms, but he knew that Yuuri was in one of the states where anything more than perhaps a hand on his shoulder would be shrugged off. Of course, Yuuri was composing himself quickly, still looking anywhere but at the concerned faces around him. Pushing himself onto Yuuri wouldn’t do anything, though; the only thing Viktor could do was gently guide him to the Kiss And Cry.

      Viktor didn’t know what was behind the way Yuuri’s mood was rapidly deteriorating – just before the program, he’d been smiling, apparently confident and relaxed – but he knew that sometimes, there wasn’t always something directly at blame for suddenly feeling miserable. When Viktor had been the one to feel hurt like this, there hadn’t been anyone to hold him, and by the grace of some god, he hadn’t fallen to pieces in public. There had only been the steady chipping away of happiness and the increased use of the mask-like smile he wore for pictures. It had really come to a head at the end of last season, with another gold medal to add to the dusty trophy case in the spare room of his apartment. ‘Mr. Nikiforov, what are your plans for next season?’ – that’s all he heard, even before he’d cinched his fifth World title. Oh, how he _ached_. That last press conference had been absolute agony: how could he articulate that, after living a life held together by dependency and desperation, he was losing his edge? That, though his entire international career had been characterized by surprising people, now he was at a point in his life where nothing made him happy – nothing made him feel much of anything at all, to be frank – and that wasn’t exactly a conducive mind space to be choreographing in? _When I approached every program like a new beginning, I could always surprise everyone. But that was strangling me, like having iron chains around my throat…_

      Viktor settled down on the bench and tugged lightly on Yuuri’s wrist to guide him down, too. Yuuri still wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t look him in the face. In Viktor’s mind, he was in the snowy square in St. Petersburg – it was dark, and the square was deserted, save for himself and Makkachin. Those were time times that all he wanted was a cigarette, a painkiller – just something to numb some of the pain. Instead, he turned to the freezing temperatures and let the snow fall on him until he couldn’t feel his fingers, toes, the tip of his nose, or his ears. No tears would come, and finally Viktor would look down and realize that ice was clumping in Makkachin’s tail, and weighed down with guilt, he’d pull himself to his feet and they’d trudge back to their equally dark and empty apartment.

      On the bench in the Kiss And Cry, Yuuri had his face hidden in his hands, though his body was no longer shaking with sobs. Viktor hoped that meant he’d stopped crying rather than the sobs had become silent tears. Viktor wanted to take Yuuri’s pain away, but he couldn’t think of how, not now. _‘I can only find new strength on my own’ – that’s what I always thought. But I was wrong._

      “Here come the scores for Katsuki Yuuri–”

      Yuuri sat up so fast it was like he’d been jerked upright. Viktor only saw his face – pale and drawn, but no obvious tears – from the corner of his eye: Yuuri didn’t have his glasses on, so Viktor needed to get a good look at the score to be able to relay it to him.

      “His score is 97.83. It didn’t break the hundred mark, but it’s still a high score...”

      Viktor had his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders; he felt the immediate slump just as his own face dropped into a frown. That was the lowest score Yuuri had been awarded, aside from the Chugoku-Shikoku-Kyushu Championship, and only barely higher than that. They sat, staring at the screen with twin scowls. Viktor’s first emotion was outrage, but if he thought about it, he understood why the judges had given such a low score.

      “I’m sorry,” Yuuri said, after a moment.

      “Don’t be,” Viktor said automatically, squeezing Yuuri a little closer. Yuuri was stiff as a board. There was a chance that he was watching Phichit Chulanont and Celestino Cialdini, who were on the ice and at the boards, respectively, but Viktor didn’t think that was the case.

      “I am, though,” Yuuri argued, his voice soft and fierce. “If I hadn’t touched down, my score wouldn’t be so low --”

      “Yuuri,” Viktor cut in, frustrated not with Yuuri’s mood but that he didn’t know what was driving it, “it wasn’t touching down on the quad flip – which, by the way, I was very proud to see you execute so neatly, otherwise,”

      Yuuri shrugged Viktor’s arm off his shoulders. He was still frowning deeply, watching as Phichit took a lap around the ice to raucous cheers and the wave of countless Thailand flags.

      “Well, what was it then? Just get it over with already, _coach_.”

      “What?”

      Yuuri frowned up at him, cheeks turning the usual pink they were after a skate. “You always have something to say, some critique, after I skate – you’re my coach. The only reason you haven’t started in on that shitshow out there is because I broke down like a fucking idiot after. So just go ahead and lay it on me.”

      Viktor blinked. He hadn’t known what exactly to expect from Yuuri, who was obviously hurting, but deadpan vitriol wasn’t something he’d considered. There was a herd of reporters headed their way, ready to ask questions and take pictures, so he wasn’t going to have much time to dissect Yuuri’s mood. Instead, Viktor cleared his throat and said, “Well, I’m biased, of course, so it’s not something I noticed immediately, but I think you were so concerned with acing each component of the skate that you forgot that the _theme_ was ‘sexual love’,”

      Yuuri groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head abruptly against Viktor’s shoulder. His voice sounded a little watery again when he said, “You’re saying that _not only_ did I fuck up my landing, but I spent so much thought on _not_ fucking up that I forgot to _perform_ ,”

      Viktor rubbed his hand over his face. That’s not how he would’ve worded it, but Yuuri understood anyway. If Viktor tried to make Yuuri feel better about underperforming, they’d both know he was being ingenuine – of _course_ Viktor wanted Yuuri to have flawless routines; he knew that Yuuri had the capability for them. It was better to say nothing more. There was a sweaty towel in Yuuri’s hands, all but forgotten, and as he watched his best friend on the ice, his hands formed into fists around it. _Now I can feel new emotions flowing into me through Yuuri. What should I give him now?_

      The tension was dissipating from Yuuri, though, as he watched Phichit, and his expression became one of wonderment. Truly, Phichit looked to be skating on the top of his game, and Viktor had no doubt that Yuuri was feeling a mix of pride at how his former rinkmate was performing and intimidation at the real possibility that Phichit would overtake his position in the rankings. What seemed like the entire audience was caught up in Phichit’s skate; of course, _The King And The Skater_ was a relatively well known film, but the performance would’ve fallen flat if not for Phichit’s charisma.

      The opening to the short program was one Yuuri was somewhat familiar with – _The King And The Skater_ was Phichit’s favorite movie, and it had been his dream for longer than Yuuri had known him to skate programs using the soundtrack. There had been many an afternoon the two of them had played at choreographing programs, pretending to be like Viktor. Phichit knew the music so well that he could time the movements he wanted to it without even having the songs playing aloud. The happiness and pride Phichit was feeling were obvious not just on his face but in the way he skated, clean and bold.

      There was more to it, Yuuri knew, than just excitement. Phichit had only one quad in his short program, compared with the multiple quads that the other skaters had put into theirs, and he needed to make the rest of his skate count. Still, Yuuri couldn’t help feeling like he was seeing something from a dream as he watched Phichit. He might as well have been sprawled on Phichit’s bed in their apartment, Phichit’s laptop between them, playing the movie for what had to be the hundredth time that semester. If he concentrated, it wasn’t hard to bring to mind snatches of the monologues Phichit would give him about how important it would be for figure skating and for Southeast Asian representation to bring something like a _The King And The Skater_ program, staring a Thai skater, to life (which he’d explain all while shifting one or all of his hamsters between his hands, shoulders, and head).

      As the skate drew to a close and Phichit gave a magnificent flourish, Yuuri found himself leaning forward, pulled in by the performance. At the boards, Celestino was jumping up and down, shouting praise in Italian. _I don’t think he got to respond like that much when I was his student_ , Yuuri thought. But Phichit deserved that kind of praise. On the ice, it was clear that he was in tears – but he still wore a bright smile, and he waved wildly at the crowd, a good portion of them standing to applaud. _Phichit-kun, you were a perfect entertainer to the very end!_ Yuuri could feel himself getting teary again just in time for a forceful kick to the bench he and Viktor sat on to unseat them both.

      “How long are you idiots going to sit in the Kiss And Cry?” Yuri snapped, glaring over them. He was dressed in his Agape costume, ready to skate once Phichit came off the ice.

      “Yurio…” Yuuri started, wanting to wish the Russian Punk luck but scrambling for composure. _You know, he’s seen my tattoo at the onsen, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d guessed at the implications – and yet he pulls shit like this._

      Viktor, though, released the poodle tissue box and worked a smile onto his face. Before Yuri could step back, Viktor’s arm shot out to grab him tight around the wrist, and he used the force of Yuri jerking away to haul himself to his feet.

      “Now then,” Viktor smiled, shifting the tissue box under his arm to brush his suit off and then offer a hand down to help Yuuri up. Yuuri eyed Viktor warily; he was exuding the same brittle energy that he had when he returned from the sea wall.

      Yuri hadn’t edged back over to Yakov and Lilia (who wore disdainful and frustrated expressions, Lilia perhaps somewhat murderous), so after sparing a quick glance to Yuuri to ensure that he was alright after being knocked on his ass, Viktor clapped his hand on Yuri’s shoulder and hauled him close. His knuckles were white from the grip he had on Yuri’s shoulder. In a voice low enough that Yuuri could barely hear him, he said, “Тебе нужно вырезать это дерьмо,”

      Yuri’s eyes widened minutely in surprise, but he quickly rearranged his face back into a scowl, and he looked past Viktor to Yuuri. “Whatever. Katsudon, what was that, you trying to throw away your shot _again_? I’ll show you _real_ skating.”

      Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath, his mind flashing back to crying in the bathroom on the phone with his mother after he’d lost at Sochi, and Yuri coming in and shouting at him for being a loser. They’d come a long way since then, and he knew that Yuri was probably speaking from a place of poorly worded concern, but it still stung. _No wonder he doesn’t take me seriously, yakuza tattoos or no._

      Viktor slipped his hand into Yuuri’s and pulled him a little closer. Yuuri’s fingers tightened around Viktor’s, and he felt a small wave of relief. They were in this together. “Davai, Yurio,” he said softly, sweeping Yuuri along in his wake as he nodded politely to Yakov and Lilia and headed toward the flock of journalists. To Yuuri, he said, “I don’t know what Yurio has got into his head today, but he’s right, on some level – we stayed at the Kiss And Cry long enough that the reporters will now be choosing between interviewing us or Phichit and Celestino.”

      Phichit and Ciao Ciao, though, went to the Kiss And Cry, and Yuuri and Viktor were at the mercy of the journalists. Yuuri was composing himself on the fly: mentally, interviews were taxing and he usually struggled unless he went into them with a plan. Viktor was almost reflexively good at talking about himself, especially after so long in the spotlight.

      Before they met with the official sportscasters, Viktor pulled Yuuri to the side. With gentle fingers, he tilted Yuuri’s chin up to look fully at his face, assessing the damage Yuuri had done with his tears. Yuuri found himself holding his breath, both reluctant to be scrutinized like this and at the same time wanting only to melt into Viktor’s touch. Viktor cradled Yuuri’s cheek with one hand, the other used to push flyaway strands of hair back into place and to smooth the puffiness under Yuuri’s eyes. Finally, Viktor brought a small tub of chapstick from his pocket and swiped a generous amount over Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri was hit with a pang on d _éjà vu_ , and he squeezed his eyes shut. There was a minute tremble in Viktor’s hands, so small that Yuuri might’ve imagined it as Viktor held his face with both hands, just for a moment. Then Viktor was brushing his lips against Yuuri’s forehead and pulling away. Yuuri opened his eyes just to see Viktor take a small step back.

      “Interviews, da?”

      Not long after, it was announced that Phichit’s scores were back: 95.73 – a new personal best for him, but not high enough to overtake Yuuri’s score. Yuuri felt a stab of smugness at this, followed immediately by guilt. Phichit, at least, didn’t seem upset with the results – on the contrary, he wore a wide smile, surrounded on the bench with hamster plushes he’d plucked from the ice. Quickly, the journalists surrounding Yuuri who knew that they’d shared an apartment for four years in Detroit changed the direction of their questioning to find out how Yuuri felt, knowing he’d kept his friend in check.

      Yuuri tried to focus on the questions he was being asked, tried to forget about his best friend celebrating behind him, tried to represent not only himself but everything he represented in the best light – but it wasn’t long before there was something else that sent the venue into a frenzy. Yuri Plisetsky was on the ice.

      There was a monitor nearby with a live feed of the ice; Yuuri knew how rude he was being, but in the moment, he didn’t care. Yuri was skating the program that Yuuri must have seen a hundred times in Hasetsu (and a hundred more since), but there was an entirely new air to it. Perhaps it was just the drilling Yuri was getting from Lilia Baranovskya, but the way Yuri was skating was more than simply graceful or even ethereal. When he made his first jump (triple axel), arm extended over his head, Yuuri _knew_. Yuri had finally, truly, unlocked his agape. It wasn’t as simple as that, either; Yuuri had never seen someone so young skate with such poise, save for Viktor. Viktor had choreographed the program to show more than one aspect of selfless love: it was almost a juvenile concept, with sexual love being the mature counterpoint, while all the while being a more challenging premise – to love without regard to one’s self, completely and without bias. The juvinility was represented even more so by Yuri’s young age, and outward appearance and the short steps in the step sequence.

      But the risk he was pulling off – as Yuuri watched, he went in to the quad-triple combination, again with an arm raised over his head – was such that even seasoned figure skaters typically shied from. Even in the way he was striving to make himself unique from Viktor, Yuri was drawing even more similarities to him, in Yuuri’s eyes – Viktor was the only other skater he could think of who would try something so bold and execute it so artfully. And Yuri’s jumps were technically flawless. He was like a young god, cutting across the ice with a face as calm and composed as an angel’s. His last jump was a quad toe loop, and this one Yuri jumped with both arms raised neatly above his head. Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat. Yuri still had a step sequence to go, and Yuuri was certain he was watching some kind of rebirth. _This isn’t even the same Yuri I saw at dinner last night. He’s something new and horrible and beautiful._ Yuuri turned to express this to Viktor, reporters be damned, only to find that he was surrounded only by strangers.

      Viktor didn't mean to leave Yuuri alone with all those reporters. He'd intended to stay right by his side and guide Yuuri – who was still obviously shaken – through questions that would no doubt get intrusive and uncomfortable. But from the monitors all around them, he saw Yuri take the ice, and immediately he could see that something had changed. Yuri's form was perfect as he looped from the gate to the center of the ice, shoulders back and chest open. His hands, even, were slack and relaxed; his jaw wasn't clenched in focus like it almost always was when he was skating.

      And without really knowing why, Viktor excused himself from the interview he was giving to rush down the corridor to find an entrance to the stands. He made it up the concrete steps and to the railing in the roped off area for competitors by the time Yuri was starting the first step sequence of Agape. Here came the first jump, and an ache in Viktor's chest flared up out of nowhere, and suddenly it was hard for him to draw breath. _T_ _ _hat would be me, if things were different. That could even be a reflection of my youth, but I know Yuri doesn't need me anymore. I’m not the skater anymore.__

      Viktor had written the programs – both Eros and Agape – when he was still telling himself that he'd be competing for the season. He'd written them when he still thought the Yuuri he'd met at the banquet would be waiting for him in Japan, when he thought he'd be coaching and competing at the same time. When it quickly became clear that Yuuri had no recollection of the conversation that had lead Viktor halfway around the world, Viktor was left scrambling. It had made sense at the time, when Yuri showed up in Japan in pursuit of Viktor and a forgotten promise, to shove the Eros program at Yuuri to try and evoke some remembrance of the Sochi banquet and to give Yuri the Agape program as a kind of challenge. Part of that had to do with Viktor's own narcissism; he'd told Yuri that the Agape program was one that he would've been able to do perfectly as a fifteen year old as something of a challenge. In reality, Viktor at fifteen had been a mess of searing emotions, still reeling from his mother's death and desperate to make something of himself. He _definitely_ would've struggled with the concept selfless love. He'd snapped at Yuri's overconfidence because his own overconfidence had earned him nothing but pain, in more ways than one.

      Yuri wasn’t in Hasetsu for very long, and while Viktor had promised to coach whoever won Hot Springs on Ice, it was Yuuri he was giving his attention to. Sure, a lot of that attention was wrapped in frustration and anger disguised as snark – because Viktor was still completely lost, unsure of what to do after telling Yakov everything was going to be perfect and showing up to find that Yuuri was out of shape and ready to quit. It was those caustic emotions that hampered Yuri's development of Agape. How was he supposed to embody loving without restraint or expectation when Viktor, his coach, the man in charge of passing this knowledge on to him, was going through the stages of grief? And Viktor _was_ grieving – for a year of skating thrown away when he didn't even know how much longer he'd be able to keep it up, for a potential love he'd fantasized about since Sochi apparently being nothing more than a pipe dream, and for the knowledge that he didn't have control anymore – because what else could he do, return to isolation in his St. Petersburg apartment, where every passing day was a new weight pressing the air from his lungs?

      In a lot of ways, Viktor was childish – even as he was nearly thirty, a world record holder, and a goddamn ranked member of a powerful mafia. He hated being wrong and he didn't like uncertainty. He liked _control_. In Hasetsu, he was homesick and overwhelmed and mad at himself for losing his grip on the reins. Since his mother died and he had had to take control of his life, he'd always simply put himself on a trajectory and headed toward his goal. That's how he reached international fame; that's why he ended up quite literally breaking down when he broke his hip and his course was derailed. But Viktor kept himself together; he wasn't seventeen anymore, he wasn't going to flirt with drugs and death anymore. He was going to put all of himself into coaching Yuuri.

      And so Yuri went back to Russia to train with Yakov, and Viktor stayed in Hasetsu and focused his attention on Yuuri. Viktor didn't know how to be a coach – he was abrasive at times, especially when his original anger (though mostly at himself) came bubbling to the surface; he was inexperienced in empathy after spending his youth either isolated or inebriated. When Viktor was with Yuuri, suddenly he was finding more of himself than he ever had. Never before had he sought out happiness like that. Never before had he felt so alive – so in love, not just with another person but with _life_. Everything – all the pain, all the uncertainty – it was all worth it to wake up next to Yuuri, to be doted on by the Katsuki family or their friends, to go for walks early in the morning on the beach with Makkachin. To know, beyond a doubt, that Yuuri _knew_ him, and that he continued to choose to love Viktor, even with every new thing he learned about the life Viktor had kept secret from the world.

      In the beginning, Viktor still kept his original plan – which had been to coach Yuuri and skate at the same time – in mind. But as the days and weeks and months added together, and Viktor fell more and more in love with Yuuri, he found himself thinking less of skating the next season and more of what Yuuri would be doing the next season. Sure, at competitions he felt flickers of frustration at not being the one out there on the ice and stabs of uncertainty in his actions, because all these years he’d never had to think about what to do at a competition other than skate and win. And he was usually a little on edge, not just worried about Yuuri, but obsessing over the other skaters’ programs, constantly going over them in his mind, working out ways to improve GOE and maintain a clear lead as if he was still the one competing. He’d always adopted a mindset based around the Nureyev phenomenon – he was willing to push himself past the breaking point to achieve his goals, to overtake his peers, no matter what differences there might be in resources or backgrounds. After a twenty years as a figure skater, and considered the top of the sport for about a decade, it was something Viktor did without meaning to. And at the end of the day, Viktor _loved_ skating. He'd be lying, though, if he said the last couple seasons hadn't weighed on him. More and more, the sport he loved was becoming a chore, and he was bound by expectations so tightly that he didn't even feel like himself in the places that had once been the only ones where he felt alive. His life couldn't continue like that.

      Watching Yuri skate Agape for the Grand Prix brought all those feelings – the doubt, the pain, the confusion – bubbling to the surface. Viktor felt like he was watching himself the season he'd won his first World title superimposed over Yuri on the ice. Never again was he going to be that young, with so much of his skating career ahead of him. That chapter of his life was over... and if Viktor was going to be truly honest with himself, it had been over for some time. It turned out that when Yuri had yelled at him in the morning he hadn't been wrong – the old Viktor Nikiforov _was_ dead. Now he was watching Yuri step into his place, proving he was capable of being the new face of Russian figure skating with his perfect embodiment of Agape on the Grand Prix ice. Now, there was something possibly even more exciting waiting for Viktor – coaching Yuuri. The realization settled around Viktor’s shoulders, not like a weight but like a mantle of roses. There were still some thorns – this was going to be uncharted territory, and though he’d been grieving the end of his skating career all season, there was a finality now that felt like the death of an old friend – but oh, was it sweet. Unbidden, Viktor’s mind went to when he’d met Yuuri at the Fukuoka airport after the Rostelecom Cup.

      Yuuri had asked if Viktor would coach him until he retired – and Viktor had agreed then, but now, he could be even more certain. They would never have to part; they would be together in skating for as long as Yuuri wanted to keep going, and then they had the rest of their lives to share.

 

      Yuuri had excused himself from the reporters and all but fled the staging area. His glasses were zipped into the pocket of his track jacket, and he stuffed them on his face as if it would help him locate Viktor quicker. _It’s fine, this is fine. Everything is alright_ , Yuuri repeated over and over in his mind. He couldn’t help the swell of unplaceable despair rising in his stomach, though. Yuri was still skating through his step sequence; the melancholy aria was still spilling through the speakers of CCIB.

      When he finally located Viktor, it was almost on accident. Yuuri had ducked into the reserved section of the stands to see if he could see Viktor from there, only to realize that Viktor was dead ahead of him, leaning against the railings to watch as Yuri finished his performance.

      “Viktor,” Yuuri called, relief coloring his voice.

      Viktor didn’t turn, apparently captivated by Yuri’s skating, and realization hit Yuuri like a punch to the gut. _My time with Viktor is already up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this big long introspection thing typed out to go here and then I didn't save it lol - basically, the POV from Viktor in the second half of the chapter wasn't there originally, but it's important to me to not only reflect meta on canon Viktor's feelings of being trapped in figure skating, but also to look at the mafia elements and how his relationships with Yuuri and Yuri impact his outlook on life. This is something I've done a toooon of reading on, so I want to get it right. Also, keep in mind that Yuuri is an unreliable narrator because of his anxiety (and because he can't read Viktor's mind). So things aren't always as dire as they might seem...
> 
> I know we're still slogging through angst but things will be resolved by the end of the fic. Right now I'm projecting this to be about 25 chapters - this is number 20!!! This chapter was a little shorter than I've posted in a few months, but that's mostly because I've done a lot of alteration in the contents of my pre-existing chapters to make sure this story flows as smooth as possible. Next chapter is projected to be 8k... so I apologize for the irregularity, but thank you for sticking with this anyway. I appreciate it!!
> 
> I'm a little late in posting this, and I apologize for that! Like I've mentioned, I started school - but on top of that my health took a big dip and for the last two weeks I've had to go in every few days for an IV. It's drastically altered my days, but I'm feeling better and my last treatment is later this week. Hopefully things will settle down and back into place after that and I'll be posting more regularly again.
> 
> Thank you infinitely for reading this fic, I know it's gotten incredibly long (this is now the largest piece I've written outside of the novel I have done). Continued comments and kudos make my absolute day, especially when I'm feeling off with my aforementioned health. As always, you can check out my drawings and references when it comes to this fic [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ⭐️  
> You can also contact me via that link [it's my tumblr] if you have questions or just wanna chat!! Want to read about Viktor's past in this AU? You can find it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952744) \- it's something I'm looking forward to updating a little more now that I've told myself that not every update needs to be a big story chapter (they'll be more like vignettes of varying lengths. If you're into blurbs or headcanons, definitely give it a try!!)
> 
> Thanks again ❤️


	21. I Let Love In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Despair and Deception, Love's ugly little twins_   
>  _Came a-knocking on my door, I let them in_   
>  _Darling, you're the punishment for all of my former sins_   
>  _I let love in_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri does something in this chapter that a lot of people with anxiety (myself included) do - it's called catastrophizing. Catastrophizing is an irrational thought a lot of us have in believing that something is far worse than it actually is. Catastrophizing can generally can take two different forms: making a catastrophe out of a current situation, and imagining making a catastrophe out of a future situation.
> 
> title from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' song of the same name

      Viktor didn’t move, not even when Yuri’s score was announced across the arena – 118.56. The score was such a shock that there was even a belated reaction in the Kiss And Cry from Yakov, Lilia, and Yuri – Yuri had shattered the standing world record for a short program score set by Viktor himself. Was a shiver running down his spine? Was he feeling like he’d just been told of an old friend’s death? For Yuuri, the shock was enough to jolt him out of the spiral his thoughts had been going in to. _My time with Viktor isn’t up, it’s just more obvious that it’s drawing to a close_ , he told himself. _Of_ course _Viktor is going to be more drawn to the ice than to me – he misses it, and I’ve been the one holding him back. I still have the rest of the Grand Prix, though. To say goodbye to this._

      As if Viktor could hear the hum of Yuuri’s thoughts, he slowly turned around. To his credit, he didn’t look surprised to see Yuuri there – maybe he _had_ heard Yuuri call his name, after all. He raised his eyebrows, face otherwise impassive.

      “I was curious as to how it was going, too,” Yuuri said, hoping he sounded light and casual.

      Viktor put his hands in the pockets of his neatly tailored coat and nodded. “Chris is about to take the ice. Let’s go find a seat.”

      “Alright,” Yuuri said, mustering a smile. But Viktor was already turning back to the ice, and by the time Yuuri was up the rest of the stairs, Viktor was already walking in front of the first level of seating. Usually Viktor was clingy to the point where Yuuri had to push him away a little so sponsors didn’t start asking untoward questions about their personal life; it stung to suddenly not have him trying to hold Yuuri’s hand. _What did I expect, after being so distant all day?_ Yuuri mentally chastised himself. He took a deep breath and caught up with Viktor on the stairs.

      It looked like Viktor was headed to an empty row, but Yuuri saw some familiar faces, and in a rush of pettiness (if Viktor wasn’t keen on talking to him right now, maybe someone else would), he grabbed Viktor’s hand and tugged until Viktor turned around.

      “Let’s sit here,” Yuuri said, gesturing to the empty sears next to the Crispino twins and their longtime friend and fellow singles competitor Emil Nekola.

      Viktor was making an obvious (if not valiant) attempt not to wrinkle his nose. “You… don’t want to sit together?”

      His meaning – for the two of them to sit alone, not with Yuuri’s friends – wasn’t lost on Yuuri. But instead, Yuuri smiled and gave Viktor’s hand a little squeeze. _I don't want to tell him yet. I want this to last._ “It’ll be nice. And you should socialize with more skaters, don’t you think?”

      Viktor’s surprise was clear in the way his indulgent smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he didn’t say anything more, just gestured for Yuuri to enter the row of seats ahead of him. If the other skaters had any questions about what had just been exchanged between Yuuri and Viktor, they didn’t voice them. Michele, to his credit, was fixing Viktor with a glare (as if Viktor was _really_ going to make a pass at Sara).

      “Oh, Yuuri, I loved your short program!” Sara said brightly as Yuuri sunk into the seat next to her.

      Yuuri smiled and bit his tongue against launching into a critique of his own performance. “Thanks, Sara. Are you here as a competitor?”

      Sara nodded, her long hair rippling around her shoulders like black silk. “Yes! The long programs are tomorrow afternoon between pairs and ice dance. You probably didn’t see the short programs – they were after the opening ceremony yesterday. Mickey’s here because he bought a ticket after I _told_ him not to come, and I invited Emil because I figured we might as well make an event out of it.”

      Yuuri didn’t quite know what to say to that – he never did when the odd relationship between the twins came up – but thankfully, Chris took the ice right as Sara finished speaking. It seemed like all around them, people were pulling Swiss flags from their pockets or purses and holding them up, all screaming Chris’ name. It made sense – Chris had been a staple in international figure skating as a senior for the last decade. But Yuuri found that his gaze kept being drawn to Viktor rather than Chris. It was like he couldn’t focus on anything else – and to make matters worse, Viktor, who was generally so tuned into Yuuri that he was overbearing, was oblivious. Yuuri bit his lip and tried to nip the panic-driven despair blooming in his chest in the bud. So what if Viktor was leaning forward, completely focused on Chris before the program had even started? They were friends. Jealousy was misplaced.

      On the ice, Chris was quickly reminding people that not only was he ten years older than Yuri, but his theme this year was the polar opposite. His movements were evocative of dancing in a club, and Yuuri remembered that they’d apparently pole danced at the last banquet (and video footage of that event was held on the phones belonging to most of his friends in the figure skating world… god, he was never going to live that down). Chris’ first jump was his standard quad lutz, executed neatly with height and distance that not even Viktor could get out of his lutzes. Next to Yuuri, Sara and Emil were cheering while Michele remained stony-faced. On Yuuri’s other side, Viktor held his chin between his thumb and forefinger, a smile growing on his lips. Not once had he looked away from the ice. What was going on in his mind?

      “...how does Viktor Nikiforov feel, watching his rival of the last decade from the audience rather than the ice?” the commentators were wondering. Yuuri’s stomach felt leaden. _Well naturally Viktor misses it,_ Yuuri wanted to say. _Of course he does. It’s me, it’s_ me _, his skater who’s going to bomb the whole Grand Prix for the second fucking time in a row, who’s holding him back. It’s the worst crime I’ve ever been a part of, the days I wanted to be a full yakuza member be damned._ Chris jumped his triple axel, achieving again the height and distance he was well known for. _I thought the same thing when I saw him watching Yurio earlier, and now…_

      Chris’ last jump, a quad toe loop, was under-rotated. The flaw would’ve been missed by someone unfamiliar with figure skating jumps; on all other accounts, it was neat and the program continued to flow. _Of course, this is still Chris_ , Yuuri thought, dread making him feel like he was watching the last of the program from underwater. _Everything in his skate has had perfect execution, even with the last quad being under-rotated. He may outscore me_.

      Chris finished his skate looking flushed but proud. Viktor was smiling and applauding, adding to the thunder of cheers filling the rink. Chris skated a small circle, waving, before heading for the gates where Josef and Luca were waiting. There were smiles all around; Luca draped Chris’ jacket around his shoulders like it was a cape – a king’s mantle – as they headed to the Kiss And Cry. Yuuri wanted to make some sort of joke to Viktor about the performance of Chris’ they’d last watched together in China (‘hey, at least he didn’t cum on the ice this time around!’), but when he opened his mouth and turned to catch Viktor’s eye, Viktor was looking up at the screens hanging over the ice, apparently as intent on waiting for Chris’ score as the three inside the Kiss And Cry were. The words died on Yuuri’s tongue. He felt, for a moment, like he was watching Viktor on TV – a close up of his upturned face as he waited for the cue in his music to begin a skate. Viktor was faraway, a beautiful ice prince, and Yuuri was caught on the sidelines. He’d forgotten how this felt, after the months in Hasetsu where Viktor had become warm and alive to Yuuri. Was this how it was going to be when things were over?

      “The score for Christophe Giacometti is 102.37! He has passed Yuuri Katsuki and is currently in second place.”

      In the Kiss And Cry, Josef grabbed Chris’ knee and Luca squeezed his shoulder. Chris smiled coolly, like he had known he would score well, and blew a series of kisses, much to the excitement of the crowd. Yuuri felt like he was watching a celebration of the end of his career. Viktor still wasn’t looking at Yuuri. He didn’t express any frustration or disappointment; he didn’t start in on a lecture about how Yuuri needed to skate better, he didn’t start in on an analysis of the way the judges had scored Chris. Instead, he smiled – a small heart, one Yuuri could tell was genuine.

      “Yeah, Chris!” he whooped, applauding loudly and waving like Chris was standing right in front of him and not across the rink. Yuuri’s stomach felt sour. He knew he was being an awfully sore loser, but it was hard to keep from scowling, to force himself to clap. Since when did Viktor cheer on competitors like this? _Chris is my friend, I shouldn’t be so bitter,_ he chastised himself. _Viktor is allowed to be invested in Chris’ skate. And jealously isn’t becoming._

      Sara leaned in, catching his attention from his peripheral. “Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” she began, her big purple-blue eyes painfully sympathetic. Yuuri’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to be _pitied_ ; he wanted to do better. He was saved from answering, though, by the violent drop of a foot over the back of his seat. Yuuri knew, just from the quick glimpse he got of the gaudy leopard print of the trainers, who the owner was – Yuri. He scowled back defiantly when both Sara and Yuuri turned around in their seats to raise their eyebrows at him.

      Instead of saying anything to them, though, he crossed his ankles on the back of the seat and leaned forward to shout, “Davai!”

      Yuuri followed Yuri’s gaze. Otabek Altin, the Dark Horse, was on the ice, dressed in some kind of heavily embellished lederhosen ensemble. Apparently Otabek heard Yuri over the din of the rink, because he turned away from his coach to look directly through the crowd to where the Russian Punk sat and raise a thumbs-up.

      Otabek wasn’t a large person – he stood shorter than Yuuri, and still had the slenderness to his limbs indicative of a past growth spurt (after all, he was only eighteen). After Chris, who was half a foot taller, broad through his shoulders and hips, and known for exuding blinding charisma, Otabek looked small, surrounded by the empty ice. He didn’t seem moved by the loud applause that welcomed him onto the ice; his face was composed and impassive.

      “...this is his very first Final, after finishing the Grand Prix Series in second place,” the commentators narrated. Yuuri swallowed a groan. O _f course he’s new to the senior division. What a season, after winning bronze at World’s – so what, is he going to knock my score off the podium, now?_ Yuuri was getting himself more and more worked up, but if he tried to think abstractly, he really did admire Otabek. The narrative the commentators were giving – about how Otabek’s goal was to bring international recognition to his country and to bring gold home – was something that resonated with him. So much of what Yuuri did in the spotlight was done with the knowledge that the eyes of his hometown were on him – and more than that, the eyes of his ninkyō dantai. Image was everything – and what positive impact would there be unless talent and honor were a part of that image?

      Otabek opened his short program with a quad toe-triple toe combination, both executed with textbook precision. Yuuri could feel his brows knitting. Otabek didn’t have the ballet background that most of the other dancers had, or at least crosstrained with. While lacking artful flourishes, his movements were neat and strong – he skated like a soldier might march, practiced and honest to each figure. There was a step sequence filling the space between the first combination and the next two jumps; Yuuri thought of the way Viktor had once told him that he was able to make his music a part of him. Otabek was skating to a romantic-period overture, but he still somehow embodied the strings with his steps. It was intimidating – and what was more, Yuuri thought, was the way that he could see how transfixed Viktor was from the corner of his eye.

      “Otabek wasn’t very memorable in the past,” someone said, and Yuuri looked past Yuri’s shoe to see that Sara was speaking with a wondering expression. “He’s completely different now.”

      Behind them, Yuri harrumphed. On the ice, Otabek executed a triple axel. Yuuri was taken aback by the power behind the jump, something he hadn’t expected from a relatively small person. Did Otabek skate like this when he’d been in Detroit? Yuuri couldn’t remember.

      “Look at the height and distance of that jump! That’s an _Otabek Altin_ triple axel.” The commentators, too, were impressed. Yuuri wished things were different, that he could at least bury his face in Viktor’s shoulder. Instead, he gripped his knees and watched with growing dread.

      The last jump – a quad salchow. The movement of the jump seemed to ripple all through Otabek’s body, from the sweep of his leg to the way he craned his neck. Yuuri shivered. He hadn’t even been able to land a salchow until Yuri showed him a few months earlier in Hasetsu. _So Otabek’s jumps were flawless. His skating shows no hesitation._ Yuuri sat more forward in his seat, frowning as he followed the last of Otabek’s skate. _That determination is very much his trademark._

      When Otabek came to his final pose with a flourish of the overture and a rising shriek of cheers, Yuri made a show of recrossing his ankles on the back of the stadium seats. “Another score higher than the pig’s,” he declared loudly.

      Yuuri felt like he was going to be sick. Viktor was still watching the ice – he didn’t bother to say anything in Yuuri’s defense. “He was great,” he said, eyes still on Otabek. “So exotic! It felt very fresh. They said he’s from Turkmenistan, Yurio?”

      Yuuri couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy the colorful retort Yuri was giving Viktor, having risen to obvious bait. Instead, he was trembling so hard that his jaw hurt from clenching against it. He pushed his feet hard against the floor through his trainers, willing his muscles to mind his will and relax. The shakes moved instead to his hands, so he tightened his grip on his knees. There was one more skate – JJ’s. How much more would Yuuri’s score be buried at the end of the day?

      It didn’t help matters when Otabek’s score came back – 112.38. He’d completely knocked past Christophe’s score and successfully booted Yuuri off the podium. It was a personal best for him, and encroached on Viktor’s record that Yuri had broken with his earlier skate. Otabek, to his credit, looked genuinely surprised with the score, sitting in the Kiss And Cry. He’d snagged a Kakao Ryan doll off the ice and sat with it in his lap, surrounded by individually wrapped flowers, equal parts a juvenile and an esteemed athlete. The goal he’d set for himself – bringing gold home to Kazakhstan – was in reach. _Maybe it’s good that this will be it for me. I don’t think I can compete with these young skaters,_ Yuuri thought numbly.

      JJ'd had a skate on the ice as soon as Otabek reached the gate, leading screaming fans in a chant of his name. He made a show of making the sign of the cross and dipping his head in a silent prayer – was he praying, or was this just part of his geniusly crafted image? Yuuri was so tense that he couldn’t sit back in his seat. JJ was the only skater to have won both his qualifying competitions, and it was no secret that he intended to win the Final, Canadian Nationals, Four Continents, and World competitions in a ‘grand slam’, aligning himself with the prowess of Viktor. It was one thing to mock him for being so ambitious and quite another to watch him back up his claims of skating supremacy with perfect programs. It was his programs, with six quads, that had in part encouraged Yuuri to convince Viktor to let him add the quad flip in his own skate.

      JJ’s name and program were announced, and the skate began much like every other thus far had. Like Chris, JJ was known for his repertoire of massive jumps. But when the first planned jump – a quad toe-triple toe combination – did something it wasn’t supposed to. A groan rose from the audience and JJ was visibly bewildered, coming away instead after only the quad toe loop. Sara clapped a hand over her mouth, and behind them, even Yuri huffed a surprised “Huh?”

      Yuuri leaned forward, momentarily distracted from his shaking hands. How was JJ going to compensate to maintain his high base technical? The next jump planned in JJ’s program was a triple axel. Inexplicably, JJ popped the jump, turning it to a single. The twins were speaking in hushed, rapid-fire Italian, with Emil (who apparently knew enough Italian after being friends with the twins so long to follow along) chiming in at odd intervals in English. Viktor was sitting very still on Yuuri’s other side, frowning as he watched JJ throw himself into a flying sit spin. The movement was rushed and unbalanced, and Yuuri, like Sara, covered his mouth in shock. Even Viktor, once famous for his cold reputation, gasped.

      “What the _fuck_ was that?” Yuri muttered, and Yuuri had to agree.

      Around them, JJ supporters were openly weeping. On the ice, JJ was floundering – he was skating, but it was like he was only going through the motions. There was nothing, no emotion, behind them. His fans sang along to the ‘Theme of King JJ’ like it was a lifeline. It seemed like JJ was trying to rally, but it was too late for him. His highly anticipated quad lutz was upon them, and like the axel, JJ popped the jump.

      Yuuri dropped the hand he’d had over his mouth onto Viktor’s knee, not thinking about the action. _It’s like I’m seeing myself from last year._ Under his hand, he felt Viktor move his leg, but when Yuuri started to withdraw, Viktor covered his hand with his own. _No, this is different from what happened last season. JJ won’t – can’t – stay stuck in one place. I let myself wallow after last season; I stopped fighting. But JJ is out there, still fighting. No one has any right to mock the challenge he’s taken on – that’s an unprecedented number of quads in his programs, and he’s only nineteen._

      Yuuri turned his hand experimentally under Viktor’s, and though Viktor didn’t look at him, he laced their fingers together like it was the simplest thing in the world, like he hadn’t been distant since Yuuri’s skate. It wasn’t fixing the wreck the day had become, but it seemed like the screaming in his mind quieted a little. He watched JJ giving a lackluster rendition of his usually dramatic step sequence. The arena was silent when he took his end pose. Yuuri let out the breath he’d been holding. Maybe it was selfish or unempathetic of him, but Yuuri felt a little more secure knowing that his score was most likely safe from being displaced by JJ. _I have no regrets about taking on my own challenge this season._ _I made it this far; it’s an accomplishment to be one of the six finalists. I can’t sell myself short before we’ve even reached the end._

      JJ was in the Kiss And Cry, sandwiched between his parents – his _coaches_. What was that like, being coached by your parents? Viktor had always wondered that – of course, Yakov was his guardian from the age of fourteen, and he’d always been something of a father figure to Viktor, so there was a kind of similarity there. But Viktor couldn’t compare the feelings he had regarding his mother with those he had with his coach; he didn’t know how you could shift between parenting and coaching without it all becoming muddled, or without the child, the person being coached, seeing their parent less as family and more as an extension of a job. _Not everyone regards skating as a job_ , Viktor mentally argued with himself, _not everyone works themselves to death on one thing because they don’t have any hobbies after getting sober. And anyway,_ he continued, giving a sideways glance to Yuuri, whose cheeks hadn’t ever gone back to their normal warm color after his skate but were still flushed pink, _we’ve sorted out being more than one thing. Yuuri sees me as his coach but also as his partner, after all. Doesn’t he?_

      Deep in thought as he was, Viktor’s fingers twitched in Yuuri’s loose grasp. Immediately, Yuuri began to pull away. Viktor frowned., but he didn’t move to hold Yuuri’s hand tighter – he’d obviously been anxious all day, and nothing would be gained by making him feel trapped.

      “Yuuri?”

      Yuuri looked at him, his russet eyes big and bright with emotion behind his glasses. “Sorry,” he muttered.

      Viktor’s frown deepened. “Sorry?” he repeated, “What are you sorry for, pыбка?”

      Yuuri had a small, almost petulant frown working across his own face now. “I – I thought you didn’t want to hold my hand, I thought I was -”

      He was interrupted by a kick to the back of his seat. It was Yuri, watching with a scowl.

      Earlier irritation came bubbling back up in Viktor’s chest. In Russian, he snapped, “Didn’t we _just_ discuss you not kicking things, Yurio?”

      “I thought you’d be interested to see that stupid JJ’s scores are up, but I guess you’re too busy upsetting the piggy, old man,” Yuri growled back in English, clearly intending Yuuri to understand.

      Viktor immediately turned back to the large screen over the ice. Yuri was right – JJ’s scores were posted. He’d scored 86.71 – quite obviously the lowest score of the division. The stands seemed to fill with rumbles of disapproval and the wails of disappointed fans.

      “This is the lowest score of Leroy’s senior division career,” the commentator said. On screen, JJ’s mother had her arm around his back and another hand on his shoulder, holding him without really wrapping him in her arms. Still, JJ was physically collapsing, sinking into himself in response to the score. Viktor couldn’t blame him – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a score like that, but he understood all the same.

      And then something bizarre happened – JJ’s girlfriend, or fiancee, or whatever she was – got to her feet, tears still dripping down her face, and started to clap, chanting, “ _JJ! JJ! JJ!_ ”

      Before long, much of the audience had joined in. Viktor crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Yuuri, who looked as taken aback as Viktor felt. Even the Crispino girl and Emil Nekola had joined in clapping along (Michele was directing his scowl between the two of them). In the Kiss And Cry, JJ had raised his head, looking bewildered. How did one respond to something like this? Viktor had had many an audience chant his name, but it had never been out of pity. He thought perhaps they’d all just wait for the officials to do something, but then JJ got to his feet and threw his arms out.

      "Stop!” he yelled, and behind Viktor, Yuri gasped and swore viciously in Russian, correctly anticipating JJ’s next move, which was to hold his hands up in matching hooks and shout, “It’s… JJ Style!”

      Once again, the stands erupted into cheers – save, this time, for the row of skaters, whose sympathy for JJ had quickly returned to exasperation with his ego. Yuri was on the brink of a true meltdown, tugging at the drawstrings of his hoodie (worn over his costume and under his Team Russia jacket, because he was always cold) and kicking at the concrete floor, shouting incoherently.

      In the midst of the chaos, Yuuri reached out and rested his hand on Viktor’s arm. Immediately, Viktor relaxed so he wasn’t so closed off, so Yuuri could take his hand if he wanted to. Yuuri didn’t, he didn’t even raise his head to meet Viktor’s eyes, but he kept his hand on Viktor’s arm when he leaned in so he could be heard over the din. “Vitya?”

      “Yes, darling?” Viktor answered, figuring that it was loud enough around them that being affectionate wouldn’t be an issue (that and the rings they both wore). He watched Yuuri take a deep breath and the tips of his ears turn pinkish before Yuuri replied.

      “Can we talk?”

      Alarm bells were going off in Viktor’s mind, but he did his best to silence them. Really, Yuuri was probably just worried about his performance with the short program, but it was nothing that couldn’t be recovered from. Viktor had spent mornings in bed with Yuuri, giving him pep talks – comforting him was something he could do. So Viktor mustered a smile and tapped the hand Yuuri still had resting on his arm, hoping that maybe Yuuri would look up at him.

      “It’s a little loud, pыбка… let’s get you changed back into your clothes and the inevitable interviews out of the way, and then of course we can,” and hopefully then he won’t be so worried. _Maybe the press will remind him that he’s in the middle of the pack, not in the bottom_ , Viktor thought, _that he’s more than capable with what he’s shown all season – and what_ I _know of his abilities as a skater – to come back from this_. To Yuuri, who had slowly tilted his face up with the grace and beauty of a rising moon, Viktor leaned in a little and whispered, “Tonight. Alright?”

      And Yuuri met his gaze, his eyes such a mix of emotions that they were unreadable, and nodded. There was something determined in the set of his shoulders that made Viktor shiver.

      “Alright.”

 

      With the men’s short programs being the last event of the night, it was nearly eleven by the time everyone had changed out of their costumes and left the staging area. Viktor had produced a gray pair of sweats, more comfortable than the Team Japan track suit, and a soft shirt for Yuuri to wear under his track jacket for the last of night. Because the locker rooms had cleared out enough that Viktor didn’t have to stand over Yuuri to shield him from exposing his tattoos, it was on his own that Yuuri realized that the shirt was one of Viktor’s – a very old, worn paper-thin Depeche Mode shirt. It was an exercise in self-restraint not to stand with his face buried in the shirt – which smelled like Viktor, all sandalwood and rose and musk – and to continue dressing. He zipped his jacket all the way up, hiding Viktor’s shirt from the rest of the world. It wasn’t for them to see; it was for Yuuri. But even with it, Yuuri felt more and more like his chest was becoming a great, gaping maw.

      There weren’t too many reporters hanging around, but there were enough that Yuuri knew better than to drop his guard. It seemed Viktor had been chatting blithely with them and the other coaches while Yuuri dressed. Of course, once he was out in the open, all the attention turned to Yuuri.

      “You landed the quadruple flip today, Mr. Katsuki – the trademark of your coach, Viktor Nikiforov. How does that compare to your quad flip attempt at the Cup of China?”

      Yuuri composed his face, hoping he didn’t look too much like a deer in the headlights. “Well, it was a planned jump change this time around, in effort to raise the base score of my short program. I would’ve liked to have landed it without touching down, though.”

      “Viktor has been very vocal about how pleased he was with the jump.”

      “Oh,” Yuuri darted his gaze sideways, where Viktor was standing beside him, talking to another reporter. Viktor caught his eye, though, and gave a little smile, a tiny heart. Yuuri’s heart wanted to sing, but he couldn’t help but feel like Viktor was just saying that. “Well, I’m happy to have made him proud.”

      Another reporter leaned in, and it was all Yuuri could do not to take an instinctive step back. “Mr. Katsuki, do you have anything to say about your upcoming free skate?”

      Yuuri mustered a smile. “I’m going for the gold with my free skate.”

 

      In the short car ride back to the hotel (something Yakov had apparently told Viktor to order, with the interests of the bratva in mind), Viktor was more like himself than he’d seemed all day at CCIB – softer, the plastic of his smile and the chill of his gaze finally melting away. He sat flush against Yuuri, resting his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. And he was _looking_ at Yuuri again, but Yuuri couldn’t help but wish he wouldn’t – it was all getting to be too much, and breathing was starting to be hard again.

      “Are you tired, pыбка?” Viktor asked, really just a murmur against Yuuri’s neck.

      Yuuri fought back a shiver. He was mentally spent, but the night wasn’t over yet, so he lied, “No, I’m alright. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a lifelong night owl,”

      Viktor smiled against Yuuri’s skin. They were pulling into the parking lot of the hotel. “I guess so. Do you want to shower…?”

      Yuuri filled in the rest of that question – _together?_ And of _course_ he wanted to, but he couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. He put a hand on Viktor’s knee, relieved when it didn’t tremble. “No, I’m going to check in at home – I know my parents are probably still awake, they tend to watch the competitions when they can.”

      “Alright,” Viktor said, raising his head from Yuuri’s shoulder so Yuuri could clamber out of the car, and then closely following him. Yuuri searched the profile of Viktor’s face while Viktor leaned back into the car to thank the driver – Viktor _did_ look tired, but he looked content. That was what mattered.

      Their hotel room was as they’d left it, various cosmetics of Viktor’s still scattered on one side of the bed, their luggage open and spilling. Neither of them spoke for a time, each occupied with stripping out of their outer layers. Viktor was always dutiful about hanging his suit up, stripping down until he was in socks and underwear in the main room before going to shower.

      Yuuri glanced up from straightening the beds to see Viktor standing in the middle of the room in his ridiculous black briefs and his unbuttoned shirt, socks still on his feet. His tattoos were perfectly crafted contrast to his otherwise pasty skin, drawing the eye down from the hint of an epaulette at his shoulder to the hand and rose that ended under the waistband of his briefs. It was nearly Yuuri’s undoing. _I don’t need to discuss anything with him, we can just keep this up – even better, we can just run away. I’ll keep him to myself and we can live somewhere with no one besides Makkachin. No one will skate anymore, and there won’t be any mafias. Guilt complex? No problem, it’ll just go away, we can –_

      “Yuuri?”

      Yuuri snapped his head up, his cheeks rapidly turning red. He’d been staring.

      Viktor took a step closer, eyebrows raised. “Are you alright, pыбка?”

      Yuuri nodded, his hair flopping over his forehead. “Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.”

      “Thinking… you like what you see?” Viktor teased, a gentle smile coming to his lips though the concern hadn’t left his eyes.

      It did nothing to help Yuuri’s blush, but he was able to chuckle in spite of himself. “Go shower, Vitya,”

      Viktor blew him a kiss before turning and heading to the bathroom.

      Yuuri let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. _It’s too much. I can’t keep this up._ Instead of calling home, he sent his mother a rather lengthy text instead, asking after her and Toshiya, double checking that Makkachin was being kept away from people food, and telling her he loved her. Her concern was obvious in her texted reply, but she didn’t press, and she didn't mention the competition. Yuuri was grateful for that.

      When Viktor came out of the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam, he found Yuuri sat on the edge of the bed across from the window, scrolling through Instagram. On the screen, Yuuri was studying a selfie Phichit had taken with Chris blowing a kiss to the phone, Luca in the back giving a sideways glance of amusement. It seemed that Chris and Phichit had hit it off at dinner the night before, and Yuuri was happy for them (though not particularly surprised that two genuine, outgoing people like Chris and Phichit would get along). He was always happy to see his friends happy, even when he was falling prey to his anxiety in the worst ways.

      Viktor sat down across from Yuuri on the window bench. He didn’t say anything, but he seemed content to wait for Yuuri to speak up. He went to work toweling at his hair with the fluffy towel he’d brought from home like everything was just fine, all normal, but it wasn’t. The air of fragility, of something unknown between them, was back – it was down to who was going to acknowledge it first, or if they’d continue to ignore it like they had all day. There was an ache building in Yuuri’s throat, threatening to manifest in tears. He couldn’t let that happen, though.

      The picture on his feed below Phichit’s post was from Minako – it was her, Mari, and Celestino, of all people, at the hotel bar. It was pretty amusing to Yuuri to see that pretty former ballerina Minako held a stein of beer and brawny Italian Celestino a flute of champagne (but then again, he knew their respective tastes and wouldn’t have expected anything different). Mari was holding a martini aloft, which _was_ a little surprising, because Mari didn’t often drink for exactly the same reason Yuuri didn’t (except she wasn’t at all likely to end up grinding on a stranger; she was more prone to simply smiling a lot more and becoming rather talkative).

      Without looking up from the phone, Yuuri said, “Apparently Minako-sensei’s drinking with Celestino at a bar,”

      “Wow,” Viktor said, still toweling at his hair. He didn’t look up, either. “It’s best to keep our distance, then.”

      And Viktor had a point – Minako was likely to drink Celestino right under the bar if no one intervened, which would be amusing but unpleasant for those involved. Thankfully, Phichit was more than versed in dealing with Celestino when he was hungover. Yuuri was fixing to plaster on a smile and say this to Viktor, when Viktor raised his head and cleared his throat.

      “Um, Yuuri? Earlier you said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

      Yuuri put his phone down, and it was like lowering a shield. His voice was too breathy when he said, “Right.” He clenched his hands into fists in the fabric of his sweatpants, but forced a smile, hoping to reassure Viktor. _Reassure him of what?_ Yuuri couldn’t answer his own question. _Vitya… please._ “After the Final, I think we should end this.”

      The silence was unbearable. It only stretched on a couple seconds, the shock growing in Viktor’s eyes. “What?”

      Yuuri couldn’t meet his gaze. His eyes drifted down Viktor’s chest, where the hotel robe he wore had fallen open, exposing the black ink of Viktor’s tattoos. He could see half of the mirrored text – ‘пусть любовь в’ – and the five-ray sun just above the antlers of the deer, everything else still hidden behind soft terrycloth. Yuuri tried to use these to steel himself.

      “You’ve done... _more_ than enough for me, Viktor,” The proper name felt heavy on his tongue after being unused for so long, but Yuuri needed Viktor to understand that this wasn’t about _them_ – this was a student talking to a coach. _Please_. “Thanks to you, I’ve been able to give everything I have to my last season,” Yuuri dipped forward in a formal bow, his hands moving to hold his knees in a vise-like grip. His throat was starting to feel coated, and words were getting harder to keep clear. “Thank you... for everything, Viktor. Thank you for being my coach.”

      He whispered the last, staring down at Viktor’s elegant feet crossed between Yuuri’s own. When was the last time his feet weren’t covered in marks from wearing skating boots day after day? It wasn’t right, Viktor was meant to be skating, he was meant to be – the thoughts flew out of Yuuri’s mind when a drop hit the top of Viktor’s foot. _What is_ – it was followed by another, another _tear_ drop, and Yuuri broke his bow to look up at Viktor. Sure enough, there were tears welled in the one of Viktor’s eyes that wasn’t covered by his hair, spilling steadily. Viktor wasn’t looking at him, but focused on some point in space.

      Yuuri felt his own eyes widening in surprise. He’d never seen Viktor cry before – sure, he’d seen him get teary-eyed or sniffle, but never seen him actually _cry_. “Vitya?” he whispered.

      Viktor blinked, tears clinging to his blond eyelashes. “Well _fuck_ ,” he said in a voice low and steady despite his tears. “I didn’t expect Katsuki Yuuri to be such a selfish person.”

      A muscle in Yuuri’s jaw jumped, but he kept his emotions in check. He had to do this. “You’re right,” he said, “I made this selfish decision on my own. I’m retiring.”

      Viktor took a deep, shuddery breath in through his nose and his eyes widened, the tears slipping down his cheeks seemed to double in speed. Yuuri was moving without really thinking, drawn to Viktor’s face like people gravitate to certain paintings in museums. He caught his hand just under the fringe that obscured Viktor’s eye, brushed it back with measured tenderness so he could meet Viktor’s gaze squarely.

      “What are you _doing_ , Yuuri?” the low and even tone of Viktor’s voice was almost lost when he whispered, and though he didn’t sound angry or overtly pleading, Yuuri heard it all the same – _why are you doing this?_

      “I – I’m surprised to see you cry,” Yuuri said, his brow creasing. _This is for you, Vitya, this is what you want. This is for the best. It’s for you; you know everything is always for you._

      “I’m _mad_ , okay?” Viktor snapped, his voice on the cusp of cracking and his eyebrows drawn together. His tears hadn’t ceased, even when he grabbed Yuuri’s wrist and pushed him away. The lamplight caught on the ring, making it shine with the movement.

      Anxiety was bubbling up rapidly in Yuuri’s chest. _It’s what he wants, why is he mad? This is what he wants._ An edge of desperation was clear in his voice when he said, “You’re the one who said it was only until the Grand Prix Final!”

      “I thought you needed my help _more_ ,” Viktor was staring at a spot somewhere behind Yuuri, not meeting his eyes.

      Yuuri swallowed hard. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, this wasn’t how he’d rehearsed this conversation in his mind. “But… aren’t you going to make a comeback?” He was staring at the exposed skin of Viktor’s neck and chest, now glistening with drying tears. It made Yuuri mad – he was mad at himself, mad at the situation, so emotionally on edge and this was the last thing he needed. _Viktor can’t keep holding himself back for me_. “You don’t have to worry about me –”

      Viktor leaned forward, grabbing Yuuri by the shoulders with enough strength to bruise “How can you tell me to return to the ice while saying you’re retiring?! How am I supposed to go out there without you?”

      Everything seemed to fall away in Yuuri’s mind, and he started to frown. His questions didn’t breach his lips, though, before Viktor’s mouth was on his, hungry and insistent. Yuuri let himself fall back on the bed, dropping his phone somewhere on the floor as he opened his hands to place them on Viktor’s waist and opened his legs so Viktor could climb between them. Viktor’s eyelashes and cheeks were still wet with tears, and he was still warm from his shower. Yuuri scooted toward the middle of the bed, his legs still over the edge and never breaking the kiss, so Viktor could sit over his hips.

      And Viktor did, though his chest stayed more or less flush with Yuuri’s. He moved his hands from Yuuri’s shoulders to caress his face, to card his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. The movements were harried; desperate. Yuuri didn’t care. He sighed against Viktor’s mouth, letting himself be caught up in the embrace. His own hands trailed to grab at Viktor’s ass through the robe he still wore, earning him a roll of hips down into his. Viktor’s mouth returned to Yuuri’s from his short foray into kissing his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Yuuri brought one hand back up from Viktor’s ass to slip inside the robe that was rapidly falling around Viktor’s shoulders, to skim his hand from the top of the Thieves’ Cross tattoo down to the flare of Viktor’s hip.

      Viktor shivered at the touch, mouth slipping wetly away from Yuuri’s. And then he was dropping his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck, a choked sob barely muffled in the fabric of Yuuri’s jacket.

      “Vitya?” Yuuri murmured, bringing his hand from inside the robe to cradle the nape of Viktor’s neck and wrapping the other arm around him.

      “Yuuri,” Viktor sobbed, “please don’t leave me. _Please_ don’t leave me, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I can’t – Yuuri, _please_.”

      The breath left Yuuri’s lungs. _Oh, Vitya._ He rolled under Viktor, pushing him so they were both on their sides, face to face. Viktor’s leg was still more or less hooked around Yuuri’s hip; it stayed there, heavy and grounding. Viktor was still choking on sobs, withdrawing his arm from around Yuuri’s neck to hide his face in the crook of his elbow.

      “Vitya,” Yuuri whispered, his voice dangerously close to cracking. He put a hand on Viktor’s cheek, fingertips rubbing gently in the hair at his temple. “Vitya, I’m not _leaving_ you. I’m _not_. I couldn’t, and I don’t want to.”

      “But you’re retiring!” Viktor burst out, raising his face from his arm and pushing Yuuri’s hand away. He grabbed a fistful of the jacket Yuuri wore instead. “How can you – after everything, how are you going to just quit?”

      Tears were making their way down Yuuri’s cheeks now, silent and only compounding the ache in his throat. He put his hand back on Viktor’s cheek. “I’ve been holding you back, Vitya. You should be out there skating, not on the sidelines coaching me. I’ll never be worth that.”

      Viktor’s jaw knotted under Yuuri’s hand, and his gaze became fierce. “You’re _wrong_ , Yuuri. You’re dead wrong. You’re worth _everything_. I’d give up every medal, every title – everything. Listen to me, I’ve never been as happy as I have been this season off the ice – with you. When you kissed me back in China, back in our hotel room when we watched Dirty Dancing, I called Yakov and told him I wanted to marry you, even if that meant not being able to go home to Russia, to my bratva. Because you’re worth it to me, Yuuri,”

      Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut when his tears began to cloud his vision. I _t doesn’t make any sense. This can’t be real._ “But _why_ , Vitya? Why me?”

      Viktor used the leg he had still thrown over Yuuri to pull him closer, and he wrapped his arms around him. Yuuri let himself be limp, let himself be brought totally flush with Viktor. “You’re more incredible than you know. And I love you, don’t you know that? _I love you._ ”

      Yuuri tucked his face against the hollow of Viktor’s throat. “I love you too, Vitya.”

      The silence stretched between them until Yuuri thought Viktor might’ve fallen asleep. Yuuri didn’t know what to do, let alone what to think. Everything he thought he had figured out had been dismantled; he was scared without having a concrete plan. At the same time, though, he wanted to stay in Viktor’s arms and never leave. True, both of them were sideways on the bed with their feet dangling over the edge, and the bedside lamp was still on – but there was a sense of tearstained calm all the same. Yuuri was waiting for it to pop like a balloon.

      On cue, Viktor took a deep, only somewhat shuddering breath and carded his fingers through the back of Yuuri’s hair. “You haven’t changed your mind about retiring, have you?”

      Yuuri flinched. Viktor’s voice was flat, the hurt obvious. He couldn’t lie, though. “No, I haven’t. I just – if I can’t prove that I’m better than any other skater, I can’t justify keeping you from skating any longer.”

      He could feel Viktor’s jaw clenching and unclenching for several heartbeats before he finally spoke. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, because this is your decision... and you refuse to believe me, anyway,”

      Yuuri rocked back against Viktor’s arms until he could more or less look Viktor in the eye. “I believe you, Vitya. But I need to believe myself, too.”

      Viktor stared at Yuuri, his brows knit with concern and his gaze cold as a Siberian winter, but he gave a minute nod. “Okay, pыбка. I understand that.”

      “Thank you, Vitya,”

      Viktor mustered a smile and slowly sat up. “It’s time to go to sleep, then, my darling, if you want to be able to skate your best tomorrow.”

      Yuuri’s body felt sluggish, but he sat up, too. Viktor was right, of course. “Thank you, coach,”

      Viktor stripped out of the hotel robe he still wore, dropping it over the side of the bed, and scooting up the bed to slip under the covers. He wore only a pair of his favorite black briefs, but Yuuri didn’t expect anything different from him. It made him bite his lip against a small smile, to see something so familiar in spite of everything else. Yuuri unzipped his jacket and put it over a chair on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He finished stripping out of his clothes there, leaving Viktor’s Depeche Mode shirt on.

      Under the lights of the bathroom, the old white shirt was like a piece of tissue paper, showing clearly the tattoos beneath. The tattoos – the snake and the koi – made Yuuri feel strong. They reminded him of what he’d overcome so far in his life, and of the things to come. There were things about Yuuri that no one else outside his immediate circle knew, and even more things that only he knew. _No one knows exactly my love for Viktor. No one else has loved him like this. He is a part of me. No matter what, he is with me. I am with him. But this decision is mine alone._

      When Yuuri made his way to the pushed-together twin beds, Viktor had already turned out the bedside lamp. Wordlessly, though, Viktor flipped open one side of the duvet, all but calling Yuuri to climb in bed next to him. Yuuri did, leaving a safe amount of space between them. He didn’t know what the extent of Viktor’s displeasure with him entailed, and he didn’t want to fold himself into Viktor’s arms just to be pushed away. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be reason to worry. Viktor closed most of the space between them, scooting over and putting his head on Yuuri’s pillow to rest their foreheads together.

      “I love you.”

      Yuuri could feel the muscles in his back relax, tension he hadn’t been quite aware of melting out just enough to make him shiver. He tilted his chin up just enough to rest his lips against Viktor’s and whisper back, “I love you, too.”

      Viktor put his hand in the dip between Yuuri’s ribcage and hip and kissed him back, all softness and caution – the opposite of the searing heat he’d laid against Yuuri not too much earlier. Yuuri pulled away to drop his face into Viktor’s collarbone. The brittle, delicate feeling between them was back, but Yuuri knew that this time it would be sticking around until they found some better solution than arguing and crying. At a loss for what more to do, Yuuri rolled onto his other side, facing away from Viktor. Viktor tucked his forehead against Yuuri’s shoulder after what seemed like a minute of holding his breath. Neither of them said anything more that night, and if they both were obviously blinking back tears, neither mentioned it to the other in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT HAPPENED. Are y'all still with me? Are you ready for the next update? Wednesday, 10/03, is the one-year anniversary of me posting my first fic (and it's also my birthday ☺️)
> 
> I don't know if anyone actually listens to the tracks I reference in titles and summaries, but I really recommend this one (and not just because it's one that Viktor has a tattoo of). The song talks about submitting yourself to torment and pain, and even isolation, when only expecting happiness and peace - as it can be with the uncertain nature of love. It can be taken as a dramatic, hyperbolic look at what Viktor is going through. He fell in love and forgot that not all is peachy (though in this case, it's from self-sabotage and uncertainty rather than cheating or lies or falling out of favor). So loving Yuuri isn't a punishment, but loving someone and then facing the prospect of losing them and, with them, a part of yourself, sure feels like a kind of punishment. (but do remember - catastrophizing)  
> So much of this fic is based around Yuuri's emotions, and in a way Viktor is so much more complex. He has so many canon masks that he uses to protect himself from getting hurt or compromised, and Yuuri is really the first person who he starts to show his true self to. That's one of the main things I've been trying to get at in the previous chapter as well as this one. 
> 
> [Have I talked to you guys about my headcanon that Viktor is into 80's alt ("new wave")? Like, really - google Depeche Mode or Martin Gore in the 80s and look at what they'd wear and then look at the Eros costume... the bondage inspiration is there, but it's less that 16 year old Viktor was into bondage and more that it looks fuckin cool lol]
> 
> Thank you infinitely for reading this fic, I know it's gotten incredibly long (this is now the largest piece I've written outside of the novel I have done). Continued comments and kudos make my absolute day. As always, you can check out my drawings and references when it comes to this fic [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/btsats) ⭐️  
> You can also contact me via that link [it's my tumblr] if you have questions or just wanna chat!! Want to read about Viktor's past in this AU? You can find it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952744) \- it's something I'm looking forward to updating a little more now that I've told myself that not every update needs to be a big story chapter (they'll be more like vignettes of varying lengths. If you're into blurbs or headcanons, definitely give it a try!!)

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent the better part of a year researching this fic and I finally worked up the nerve to start writing it at the beginning of March. I can't say it's completely factual, but I've done my best to make each situation is realistic (after all, though, I've never been a member of a unit of organized crime...)  
> If you have any questions or comments, leave them down below or visit my tumblr [here](https://peachy-chulanont.tumblr.com/) ❤️


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